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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


NOTICE  FOR  FIRST  EDITION. 


%a  €^atxM  Ipanagm  anJt  Artists: 


A  new  5  Act  Comedy ,  by  the  Author  of  the 


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WW  ^^ 


The  Publishers  of  "Our  First  Families"  announce  that  the 
principal  characters  and  incidents  of  this  Novel  have  been  con- 
structed into  a  Five  Act  Comedy,  of  which  the  copy-right  has  been 
secured,  and  they  are  authorized  to  receive  oflFers  either  for  the  ab- 
solnte  purchase  of  the  copy  right^  or  for  the  privilege  of  its  nightly 
representation. 

CoDtmunications  adda*essed  to  them,  either  by  mail  or  otherwise, 
will  be  promptly  answered. 

WHILT  &  YOST,  Publishers, 

309  MnrkH  St.,  PhUadeljMa. 


Jime  10th,  1855. 


OUR 


"EIRST   FAMILIES, 


ff 


PHILADELPHIA  GOOD  SOCIETY. 


BY  A  DESCENDANT  OF  THE  "PENS. 


'Caress  the  rich;  avoid  the  unfortxinate ;  and  trust  no  one." 

Turkish  PRonaii. 


WHILT  &   YOST,  309   MARKET   STREET. 

1855. 


Entered  acording  to  Act  of  Congress,  iri  the  year  1855,  by  "Whilt  &  Yo3T,  in  the 
Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PS 


Although  the  main  incidents  and  principal  characters 
of  this  work  are  sketched  from  the  life  school,  yet  no  par- 
ticular person  or  private  history  is  made  use  of  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  warrant  the  direct  personal  application  of  any 
portion  of  it.  Almost  the  only  entirely  bad  pictures  extant, 
as  works  of  art,  are  those  whose  sole  claim  to  attention  is  a 
collection  of  individual  portraits.  This  is  also  eminently 
true  of  literature ;  but  pen  and  ink  are  such  subtle  limners, 
that  they  cannot  forcibly  depict  truth  of  character  or  man- 
ner, without  flattering  hundreds  of  the  unstamped  coins 
of  current  humanity  that  tJie?/  must  have  been  the  model 
whence  the  portrait  was  drawn.  But  they  may  remain  calm  : 
their  fears,  their  vanity  and  their  indignation,  are  alike 
groundless,  idle  and  unimportant. 


lSZ(\r,33 


§cbit;itiott. 


To  tliee,  'neath  whose  despair-sustaining  eyes 

This  task,  'midst  anguished  days  and  nights,  was  wrought, 
I  bring,  in  all  their  rude  and  homely  guise, 

These  phantooa  pilgrims  of  my  wayward  thought. 

If  in  their  speech  or  lineament  dwells  aught 
That  may  remember  me  to  after  time, 

Thine  is  the  spell  that  all  the  magic  taught — 

Who  in  those  hours  that  suflfering  made  sublime, 

Upheld  my  fainting  steps,  life's  icy  steep  to  climb. 

When  friends  grew  cold,  and  kindred  turned  aside. 
And  e'en  the  mother  spurned  her  first-born's  name. 

Thou  didst  not  falter  from  my  faltering  side. 

Though  poisonous  tongues  grew  busy  with  thy  fame, 
And  sought  thy  spotless  truth  to  brand  with  shame ; 

But  leddest  me,  with  strong  and  gentle  hand. 
Through  unseen  paths,  that  opened  as  we  came, 

Till,  angel-guided,  on  the  height  I  stand. 
And  view  once  more,  with  hope,  the  peaceful  promised  land. 

Now  fades  the  dream  on  fancy's  mirror  glassed, 

Whose  fleeting  forms  I  have  essayed  to  stay 
Within  these  pages,  as  they  swiftly  passed — 


8  D  E  1>  1  0  A  T  I  U  X. 

Diinly,  as  waves  reflect  the  starry  way, 
That  arches  o'er  them  in  eternal  play 

Of  living  light — nor  have  I  striven  in  vain, 
If  I  sometimes  have  caught  a  broken  ray, 

Some  struggling  heart  to  cheer  amidst  its  pain, 
And  show  that  love  can  star  the  darkest  night  again. 

June,  1855. 


€anit\\is. 


CHAPTER  I. 
The  Honourable  Mrs.  Valentine's  Wednesday, 13 

CHAPTER  II. 
The  Introductions, 24 

CHAPTER  III. 
Preparing  for  the  Grand  Event, 31 

CHAPTER  IV 
The  Head  of  the  Family, 38 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  game  of  the  Honest  Quaker, 52 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  gay  Quaker  and  her  Music  Master, 70 

CHAPTER  VII. 
The  First  Rehearsal, 82 

CHAPTER  Vm. 

The  Two  Actresses, 93 

9 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 
The  Fast  Mon, 100 

CHAPTER  X. 

The  Harems  of  Cmlization, 119 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Temptation  and  Trial, 137 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Rosalie, ♦ -,..-^^ — 148 

CHAPTER  XIIL 
The  Matinee  Musical, 160 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  Night  of  Blood, 170 

CHAPTER  XV. 
The  Glass  Door, 180 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
The  Bloody  Footsteps, 187 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
The  Devil  in  White  Satin, 19.3 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
The  Two  Sisters, 211 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Black  Mail, 220 


CONTENTS.  Xi 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Collecting  Evidence, 228 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
The  Flowering  of  a  Heart, 237 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
Our  Two  Young  Ladies, 250 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Restitution, 263 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
The  Trial, 276 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
Riches  and  Death, 292 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
The  Unlucky  Interruption, 302 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
The  Castle  in  the  Moon, .311 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
The  Cross, 326 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
Two  of  the  "First  Families," 334 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
Felice's  Letter, 344 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
An  Infallible  Cure  for  Sea  Sickness, ., 360 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
The  Philosophy  of  Aristocracy, 361 

CHAPTER  XXXIIL 
Gathering  up  the  Threads, 369 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Women,  Cats  and  Puppies, 377 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
Geneva  La  Superba, 384 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Husband  and  Happiness, 395 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
Fruition, 403 


OUH  FIRST  FAMILIES, 


ETC. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  VALENTINE'S  WEDNESDAY. 

**BuT,jajy  dear  Mrs.  Loftus,  I  thought  you  had  no 
titles  in  this  country ;  and  yet  my  first  visit  is  to  be 
paid  to  '  the  Honourable '  Mrs.  Valentine.  Pray  ex- 
plain this  to  me." 

"Oh,  it  is  as  you  say,"  replied  Mrs.  Loftus;  "we 
have  no  titles  here — or  rather,  titles  are  valueless ;  and 
being  worth  nothing,  are  assumed  by  any  who  choose. 
We  have  whole  armies  of  captains,  colonels,  and  ge- 
nerals, without  commissions ;  judges  without  benches ; 
and  honourables  without  either  honour  or  profit.  These 
empty  titles  are  the  toys  and  playthings  with  which 
our  4nfant  republic'  amuses  itself,  and  diverts  the 
pains  of  growing.  They  are  quite  harmless,  and  they 
make  a  pleasing  sound — what  more  would  you  have?  " 
2  13 


14  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"  Oh,  I  am  quite  content,  my  dear  madame ;  and  so 
the  Honourable  Mrs.  Valentine  is  no  honourable  after 
all !  It  is  funny !  What  satisfaction  can  she  have  in 
wearing  a  title  that  does  not  belong  to  her  ?  I  would 
as  soon  appear  in  a  borrowed  dress ! " 

"Well,  if  it  was  a  brilliant  one,  and  you  had  no 
other  qualifications  for  making  a  sensation." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  make  a  sensation,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  Saintlieu  simply. 

"  Ah !  That  is  the  grand  point  of  difference  between 
you  and  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Valentine !  She  does 
want  to  make  a  sensation — it  is  that  alone  she  lives 
for." 

"And  you  say  she  is  very  popular?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  She  is,  or  at  least  assumes  to  be,  one  of 
the  leaders  of  our  topmost  exclusive  circles — the  very 
first  of  our  'first  families' — the  authority  without 
whose  stamp  of  approbation,  nothing  passes  current  in 
the  fashionable  world.  And,  besides  her  wealth,  the 
'Honourable'  is  her  only  claim  to  distinction." 

"It  is  incredible!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Loftus'  compa- 
nion, shrugging  a  pair  of  very  handsome  shoulders, 
from  which  a  Cashmere  had  fallen,  in  the  animation  of 
the  dialogue.  She  was  evidently  a  European — pro- 
bably a  French  woman,  or  at  all  events,  a  resident  of 
Paris — for  nowhere  else  does  a  woman  learn  to  draw 
a  shawl  around  her  in  that  indescribable,  fascinating 
way,  as  she  was  now  unconsciously  doing.  She  seemed 
a  living  flower,  chilled  by  some  unexpected  breath  of 
wind,  that  hastened  to  re-envelop  itself  in  its  too  soon 
discarded  ou  side  leaves. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  15 

"And  you,  my  dear  friend,"  she  resumed  after  a 
pause,  ''you,  who  are  so  immeasurably  above  all  this 
ridiculous  child's  play,  how  can  you  bear  to  tolerate 
it,  and  even  take  part  in  it?  " 

''  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  "  replied  Mrs.  Loftus, 
while  a  slight  shade  passed  across  her  fine  brow — 
leaving  it,  however,  momently  as  it  was,  open,  free, 
and  expanded  with  truth  and  benevolence.  "  I  find 
this  woman  courted  and  run  after  by  every  hody.  Those 
who  are  not  admitted  to  her  society,  are  dying  of  envy 
and  despair,  while  the  more  fortunate  consider  an  in- 
troduction to  her  circles  as  the  infallible  signal  of  suc- 
cess and  distinction.  I  must  either  acquiesce  with  the 
popular  judgment,  or  I  must  stay  entirely  out  of  so- 
ciety, and  thus  deprive  myself  of  the  opportunity  for 
doing  good  to  deserving  people, — such,  my  dear  friend, 
as  you  are.  What,  do  you  think,  would  become  of 
our  plans,  ma  'petite,  if  we  should  begin  by  insulting 
the  head  and  front  of  the  very  class  we  must  propi- 
tiate?" 

Mrs.  Loftus  rarely  indulged  in  the  use  of  such  terms 
of  endearment.  It  was  only  when  exercising  the  holy 
rights  of  benevolence,  that  her  proud  and  erect  nature 
condescended  to  stoop.  It  is  the  first  impulse  of  true 
benevolence,  to  avoid  wounding  the  self-love  of  its  ob- 
ject. 

"Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  my  kind,  good  friend,' 
exclaimed  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  taking  her  compa- 
nion's hand  and  pressing  it  with  efiusion.  "What  am 
I,  that  I  should  hesitate  to  go  where  you  go  ?     I  am, 


16  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

indeed,  ashamed,  and  will  do  every  thing  you  wish. 
But — but — I  am  not  quite  sure  I  can  get  through  with 
it  at  all  respectably;"  and  she  drew  her  shawl  closer 
about  her,  with  a  slight  shiver,  full  of  indescribable 
and  infantile  grace. 

"Do  it  in  that  way,"  said  Mrs.  Loftus,  with  her 
calm  smile,  "and  she  will  think  you  are  only  chilly 
with  this  spring  wind.  She  is  not  much  troubled  with 
sensitiveness.     But  here  we  are.     Prepare  yourself!  '* 

The  carriage  drew  up,  and  the  two  ladies  mounted 
the  steps  of  a  giddy  porch  attached  to  a  very  large, 
but  very  extraordinary-looking  house,  which  might  have 
been  the  brick  and  mortar  night-mare  of  some  dys- 
peptic builder,  trying  to  digest  a  supper  of  his  own 
materials.  It  looked  like  a  collection  of  architectural 
specimens,  collected  in  fragments  from  every  age  and 
every  country  of  the  earth.  Its  innumerable  turrets, 
recesses,  protuberances,  and  angles,  gave  you  the  idea 
of  a  house  turned  inside  out,  with  its  partitions  and 
closets  to  the  street. 

As  soon  as  the  bell  rang,  a  door  in  the  stair-way  be- 
neath opened,  and  a  roughish-looking  personage  came 
out  on  the  sidewalk  to  reconnoitre.  Upon  seeing  Mrs. 
Loftus,  however,  he  gave  a  knowing  nod,  as  much  as 
to  say  "all  right,"  and  disappeared. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu,  with  amazement. 

"  Oh,  that  means  that  John,  the  heavy  man  of  all 
work,  saw  that  we  had  come  in  a  hired  carriage,  and 
supposed  we  must  belong  to  the  common  people.     Had 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  17 

he  not  known  me,  and  known  that  I  have  a  carriage  of 
my  own,  we  should  have  been  let  in  through  the  lower 
door.     This  door  only  opens  to  the  quality! " 

"  Good  heavens !  I  hope  you  are  not  quizzing  me, 
Mrs.  Loftus — and  yet!" — and  the  pretty  blue  eyes 
appealed  to  heaven,  and  the  pretty  shoulders  were 
shrugged,  with  an  air  that  said  so  much,  that  Mrs. 
Loftus  laughed  compassionately. 

"  Poor  thing !"  said  she ;  "  what  business  had  you  in 
this  barbarous  land?" 

The  door  was  now  unlocked  from  the  inside,  and 
grandiloquently  swung  open,  by  a  most  superbly  got 
up  stoAvard,  whose  locks  were  carefully  oiled  and  ar- 
ranged in  little  parterres  of  curls,  ascending  mathe- 
matically to  the  tops — "  small  by  degrees,  and  beauti- 
fully less." 

Madame  de  Saintlieu  recoiled  shrinking  behind  her 
companion,  whispering,  "Must  I  really  go  in?" 

"Hush,  child — nonsense!  of  course!  come  along!" 
and  she  half  led  her  companion  through  the  hall,  and 
into  the  back  drawing-room. 

They  were  early.  There  was  no  one  in  the  draw- 
ing-room but  Mrs.  Valentine  herself,  and  a  gentleman 
who  was  seated  at  a  grand  piano,  passing  his  fingers 
over  the  keys  with  that  soft,  feathery  motion,  known 
only  to  artists,  who  make  the  wires  reply  as  if  they 
had  been  brushed  by  a  bird's  wing — suggesting,  with 
a  few  flashing  undulations,  music's  infinite  world. 

His  face  flushed  deeply,  as  Mrs.  Loftus  and  her 
friend  came  in — like  a  child's  caught  in  mischief;  and 

2* 


18  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

he  was  rising  hastily  to  go  away,  when  Mrs.  Valentine 
pushed  him  down  on  the  music-stool  again. 

"Law,"  she  said,  in  a  coarse  voice,  masculine  in  all 
but  depth;  "play  on — it's  only  some  of  my  people. 
This  is  "Wednesday,  you  know." 

The  young  man  looked  up  timidly,  made  an  awk- 
ward and  ineffectual  movement  to  rise,  and  th«n 
glanced  helplessly  round  at  his  hat  and  gloves,  which 
he  had  left  on  the  long  promontory  of  the  piano,  that 
jutted  out  into  the  dangerous  sea  of  Wilton  carpet 
and  little  tables  covered  with  all  sorts  of  knick-knacks, 
which  spread  between  him  and  the  door.  He  gave  it 
up. 

Mrs.  Valentine,  who  had  gone  to  meet  her  visiters, 
now  came  with  them  up  to  the  piano,  saying : 

"You  ungrateful  fellow!  You  will  be  so  glad  that 
I  didn't  let  you  go !  Here's  Mrs.  Loftus  been  kind 
enough  to  bring  Madame  de  Saintlien  to  see  me,  about 
whom  we  have  just  been  talking.  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu,  Mr.  Wilmar — our  American  pianist,  Madame  de 
Saintlieu — indeed,  I  may  almost  call  him  our  Phila- 
delphia pianist — pet  him  so  here.  You  will  of  course 
become  the  very  best  of  friends  directly.  You  may 
trust  yourself  safely  with  him,  madame — he  is  a  real 
artist — quite  a  young  Chopin,  I  assure  you." 

Poor  Wilmar,  completely  overwhelmed  by  this  ac- 
cumulation of  compliments,  and  burning  with  the  bash- 
fulness  which  genius  and  sensibility  supply  as  the  an- 
tennoe  of  those  poor  butterflies  upon  whom  the  sun  of 
society  has  never  shone,  was  almost  suffocating.     He 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  19 

half  rose,  and  by  an  ill-considered  attempt  at  a  bow, 
he  pushed  over  the  music-stool ;  and  thinking  hastily 
to  resume  his  seat,  he  suddenly  found  himself  upon 
the  floor,  looking  up  in  such  piteous  fashion,  that  Mrs. 
Valentine  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  even  Mrs.  Loftus 
herself  could  with  difficulty  retain  her  usual  look  of 
dignified  gravity. 

But  now,  the  superiority  of  the  sensitive,  thorough- 
bred, electric  woman  of  the  world,  appeared.  Madame 
de  Saintlieu  instantly  ran  up  to  the  poor  musician,  ten- 
derly assisted  him  in  rising,  picked  up  the  stool,  and 
in  her  turn  pushing  him  down  upon  it,  gently,  said, 

"  You  really  must  pardon  us  for  breaking  in  upon 
you  so  abruptly — it  was  not  my  fault,  (with  a  wicked 
shaking  of  the  finger  at  Mrs.  Loftus.)  I  would  have 
gladly  stopped  in  the  hall  till  that  delicious  nocturne 
of  Madame  Pleyel's  was  over.  It  is  a  trifling  thing — 
merely  an  outline  of  music — but  how  suggestive !  Do 
favour  me  with  it !  It  recalls  many  agreeable  things 
to  me." 

The  eyes  of  the  young  man  and  the  young  woman 
met,  while  she  was  speaking  to  him  in  this  unusual, 
earnest,  astounding  way — to  him  an  utter  stranger. 
But  he  knew  why  she  was  talking  so — it  was  to  make 
him  forget  his  awkwardness  and  his  accident — and  a 
ray  of  gratitude,  of  divine  love  and  worship  passed  into 
his  soul,  lighting  up  the  dim,  half-revealed,  but  glo- 
rious world  that  slumbered  there.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  all  his  life  that  he  had  been  entirely  under- 
stood, that  a  thought-barbed  human  glance  had  pene- 


20  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

trated  to  the  very  depths  of  his  nature.  He  dared 
again  to  raise  his  eyes — that  calm,  truthful  glance  still 
beamed  steadily  upon  him,  sending  strength,  life  and 
vitality  through  all  his  being.  The  ice  was  thawed — 
the  winter  fell  from  his  soul — he  was  another  being. 

All  this  was  quicker  than  thought — quicker  than 
the  flash  of  lightning  at  midnight,  that  discloses  the 
whole  world  ere  the  eye  can  close  its  windows  from 
the  dizzy  glare.  Wilmar's  embarrassment  was  gone. 
He  did  not  speak :  but  with  a  faint  smile  of  gratitude, 
he  rose,  brought  a  seat  for  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  and 
placed  it  at  his  left  hand,  so  that  she  could  see  his 
play — for  artists  and  critics  hear  music  with  their  eyes 
as  well  as  their  ears — and  resumed  the  fugitive  noc- 
turne of  Madame  Pleyel,  so  light,  so  evanescent — 
sparkling  and  breaking  like  moonlit  sea-foam,  or  the 
delirious  mousseaux  of  champagne,  dying  in  gladness 
between  woman's  lips. 

The  piece  was  finished,  but  Wilmar  did  not  stop. 
His  keen  black  eyes  dilated  and  flashing  like  a  snake's, 
(which  is  the  most  beautiful  and  innocent-looking  eye 
in  the  world,  contrary  to  the  general  prejudice — 'tis 
the  tongue  of  the  reptile  that  darts  the  mischief!) — his 
long,  wierd  fingers  grasping  and  letting  go  the  keys 
with  a  passion  that  made  his  thin  lips  writhe  and  his 
cheeks  palpitate  in  sympathy — he  went  on.  It  was 
his  soul's  song  of  jubilee.  Never  had  he  played  in 
such  a  manner — never  before  had  he  seemed  to  give 
way  to  himself,  and  to  wreak  such  inexhaustible  expres- 
sion upon  the  keys.      Mrs.  Valentine  was  loud  and 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  21 

sincere  in  her  praises — for,  with  all  her  coarseness  and 
vulgar  tastes,  she  had  a  genuine  appreciation  for  at 
least  the  externals  of  art ;  and  even  the  cold  Mrs. 
Loftus  was  warmed  into  something  quite  like  enthusi- 
asm. Madame  de  Saintlieu  did  not  speak  or  move — 
but  a  sigh  of  pleasure  expanded  her  bosom,  and  a  tear, 
which  her  resistless  will  forbade  to  fall,  made  her  eyes 
radiant  as  stars.  Wilmar,  who  had  not  once  removed 
his  glance,  where,  fascinated,  it  had  fixed,  now  exhaust- 
ed by  the  emotions  he  had  expressed,  suddenly  ceased, 
and  let  his  head  fall  on  the  edge  of  the  piano,  while 
he  convulsively  pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his  lips. 
When  he  looked  up  again,  he  was  calm — but  the  hand- 
kerchief, which  he  held  in  his  hand,  was  deeply  stained 
with  blood. 

Madame  de  Saintlieu  grew  pale,  and  the  other  la- 
dies hastened  to  inquire  if  he  was  ill.  Mrs.  Valentine 
was  going  to  ring  the  bell. 

"Do  not,  madam,  I  beg,"  said  Wilmar.  "It  is  no- 
thing. It  was  often  so,  when  I  was  a  child — whenever 
any  thing  unusually  affected  me.  It  has  not  come 
back  for  years — it  is  nothing.     It  is  over  now." 

"Well,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Valentine,  in  her 
kindest  voice ;  "you  may  go  now.  I  am  glad  it  is  no- 
thing serious :  I  declare  I  was  quite  frightened.  But  re- 
member not  to  make  any  engagement  for  next  Wednes- 
day. You  belong  to  us  for  that  day.  Madame  de 
Saintlieu  has  kindly  authorized  her  friend  Mrs.  Loftus, 
to  promise  for  her.  We  will  have  a  regular  concert — 
Madame  de  Saintlieu,  and  yourself,  and  some  subor- 


22  OT^R  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

dinates  that  I  will  pick  up.  You  consent,  do  you  not  ? 
And  you,  madame — do  you  think  our  jeune  sauvage 
here  will  be  able  to  accompany  you?  " 

"It  is  quite  unworthy  of  so  true  an  artist,"  replied 
Madame  de  Saintlieu,  in  a  sincere  tone,  "to  accom- 
pany the  voice.  But  I  will  consent  thus  momently  to 
degrade  his  fine  genius,  if  he  will  promise  to  do  him- 
self full  justice  afterwards,  by  repeating  the  piece  he 
has  just  played.     It  is  truly  an  inspiration." 

It  was  seldom  that  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  who  was 
a  perfectly  conscientious  critic  of  art,  permitted  her- 
self to  say  so  much.     Wilmar  seemed  to  feel  this. 

" Madame,"  said  he,  "I  will  try.  But  I  am  no  long- 
er the  same  man  I  was  an  hour  ago — I  can  promise 
nothing,  until  I  have  had  time  to  become  acquainted 
with  my  new  powers.  But  I  will  try.  I  hope  you 
will  allow  me  to  rehearse  your  music  with  you,  until 
I  can  do  it  something  like  justice?  " 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,'*  said  Mrs.  Loftus,  while  AYilmar 
blushed  at  his  own  success  in  finding  so  ready  an  ex- 
cuse for  again  meeting  this  creature.  "  She  is  staying 
at  my  house — I  have  very  few  visiters,  and  you  can 
have  the  drawing-room  and  the  piano  entirely  to  your- 
selves. I  am  determined  that  not  one  of  our  prying 
curious  people  shall  hear  a  note  of  Madame's  voice 
until  she  makes  her  grand  entrance  here,  and  lays  the 
foundation  of  a  successful  public  career.  There  is  so 
much  humbug  without  talent,  now-a-days,  that  we  must 
see  that  our  precious  talent  here  is  not  buried,  for  want 
of  proper  management." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  23 

Wilmar  bowed  to  the  two  ladies,  and  then,  turning 
to  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  begged  to  be  informed  when 
he  should  wait  on  her  for  rehearsal. 

''  Oh,  to-morrow,  if  you  like.  I  haven't  thought  of 
what  I  am  to  sing — but  we  will  try  over  every  thing, 
to-morrow,  and  see  what  will  do.  I  shall  be  at  home 
all  day." 

Wilmar  bowed  to  the  two  ladies,  and  took  his  leave. 


24  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  II. 


INTRODUCTIONS. 


The  rooms  now  began  to  fill  with  the  usual  attend- 
ants upon  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Valentine's  Wednes- 
days, Mrs.  Loftus  seated  herself  a  little  apart,  ap- 
pearing to  be  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts,  or  in 
making  observations  upon  the  visiters ;  while  Madame 
de  Saintlieu  remained  standing  at  the  piano,  turning 
over  a  pile  of  new  music. 

"Why,  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Valentine,  to  a  thin, 
scraggy,  die-away  looking  woman,  bedizened  in  regu- 
lar Rag  Fair  style,  who  floated,  wriggled  and  simpered 
her  way  into  the  room,  and  made  her  way  up  to  the 
patroness,  with  an  air  of  the  most  intense  toadyism. 
"  Why,  Ellen,  where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  I 
waited  for  you  to  arrange  the  sofas  and  tables  in  the 
front  drawing-room, — and  now  every  thing  is  wrong." 

"Dear  creature,"  said  Mrs.  Glacee,  with  an.inefia- 
ble  smile,  such  as  lithographers  bestow  on  their  copies 
of  Murillo's  Virgin  of  the  Crescent,  "you  know  I  am 
always  so  proud  of  being  able  to  relieve  you  of  the 
petite  soins  of  your  charming  jours  de  la  reception  " — 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  25 

"  Jours  de  reception,  Elleu,"  said  Mrs.  Yaleiitiue, 
who  justly  prided  herself,  on  the  French,  whicli  was 
the  only  thing  she  had  been  able  to  attain  at  Paris ; 
"  for  heaven^s  sake  don't  let  us  show  our  ignorance 
before  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  whom  I  am  going  to  pre- 
sent to  you." 

She  led  the  now  humble  and  obedient  Mrs.  Glac6e 
up  to  the  piano,  and  introduced  her  to  Mrs.  Loftus' 
protege. 

"  Oh,  1  am  so  glad  to  meet  you,"  exclaimed  the  vo- 
latile and  enthusiastic  Mrs.  Glacee,  springing  upon  her 
toes,  and  clapping  her  hands  like  a  little  girl;  *'I 
have  heard  so  much  of  you !  I  am  quite  a  devorante 
of  music :  we  are  all  quite  en  amateur  in  our  circle. 
You  should  hear  Mr.  Attarby  play  the  flute !  I  de- 
clare I  am  so  enti^ainee  by  it,  that  poor  Mr.  Glacee 
gets  sometimes  quite  jealous.  Only  think !  to  be  jea- 
lous of  a  harmless  instrument  like  a  flute  !  You  would 
consider  that  quite  mauvais  gout  in  Paris,  wouldn't 
you  now  ?  ' ' 

Madame  de  Saintlieu  looked  up  wonderingly  at  her 
bizarre  acquaintance,  then  stole  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Lof- 
tus,  and  smiled. 

"Oh,  perhaps  you  do  not  speak  English!  Well, 
then,  let  us  converse  in  French — it  is  toict  le  meme 
chose  for  me.  Mr.  Attarby  says  I  speak  French  with 
the  true  Parisian  accent.  But  Mrs.  Attarby — have 
you  seen  her?  A  terrible  woman — snubs  every  body 
— does  whatever  she  pleases,  and  is  any  thing  but  con- 
venahle.  They  do  say,"  continued  Mrs.  Glacee,  sink- 
3 


26  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

ing  her  voice  to  that  ominious  scaii.  viagmtiiilc  at  which 
a  character  falls  at  every  syllable,  "  they  do  say,  that 
when  she  is  in  the  country,  she  goes  shooting  with  her 
husband's  gun  and  boots,  and — a-hem  !  you  know  what 
I-raean-ables — rides  on  the  box  with  her  coachman — 
drinks  porter  at  luncheon,  and  bounces  in  at  the  draw- 
ing-room window,  instead  of  coming  through  the  door. 
Oh,  a  terrible  woman,  Mrs.  Attarby,  I  assure  you. 
Have  you  not  seen  her? " 

"Ellen,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Valentine,  ^'come  away. 
You  are  monopolizing  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  w^ho,  I 
dare  say,  doesn't  take  the  least  interest  in  your  chro- 
niqiie  SGandaleuse.  Besides,  I  want  to  introduce  Mrs. 
Wallingford,  who,  I  see,  by  the  sparkling  of  her  eyes, 
is  quite  gmee  with  your  so  long  keeping  possession 
of  our  new  friend.  Here,  Lilly,"  she  continued,  turn- 
ing to  a  slight,  black-eyed,  spirituelle-lookmg  woman, 
who  would  have  been  beautiful,  but  that  her  brown 
complexion  was  spotted  with  freckles,  and  who,  in  spite 
of  this  blemish,  was  still  very  striking,  with  her  masses 
of  black  shining  hair,  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  her  white 
gleaming  teeth,  and  a  laughing  child-like  voice. 

"  Oh,  pray,  Mrs.  Valentine,"  said  the  spoilt  beauty, 
"don't  disturb  my  dear  friend,  Mrs.  Glacee.  She 
isn't  half  through  yet,  for  I  can  see  that  she  hasn't 
come  to  me.  I  must  wait  my  turn  patiently,  I  sup- 
pose," and  she  gave  a  little  toss  of  her  head,  half  dis- 
dain and  half  disappointment.  She  really  was  a  good 
creature  at  heart,  and  only  slightly  tinctured  with  envy. 
But  her  head  was  very  wild  and  giddy,  and  she  was 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  27 

continually  mistaking  the  whims  of  a  morbid  fancy, 
for  the  development  of  some  profound  and  irresistible 
sentiment.  She  had  experienced  at  least  ten  grand 
passions  already  in  her  life,  without,  perhaps,  ever 
having  been  really  in  love  at  all ;  and  she  was  the  per- 
petual victim  of  the  gravest  scandal,  without  ever  having 
committed  any  thing  but  thoughtless  and  innocent  fol- 
lies. She  was  gay,  luxury -loving,  and  independent; 
and  the  daily  snubbings,  and  terrible  scandals,  to  which 
she  was  made  a  victim  by  the  self-righteous,  had  some- 
times made  her  imprudent,  and  even  reckless.  How- 
ever, although  she  had  been  incessantly  talked  about 
in  secret,  she  had  still  maintained  her  position.  Her 
husband,  a  military  man,  was  frequently  absent,  but 
he  truly  loved  his  wife,  and  was  known  to  have  the 
most  unbounded  confidence  in  her,  as  well  as  being  a 
crack  shot  with  a  pistol. 

But  the  indefatigable  Mrs.  Glacee  had  at  last  fairly 
talked  herself  out,  especially  as  she  had  received  none 
of  that  stimulating  encouragement  from  her  listener, 
which  acts  as  a  spur  to  your  professional  talker.  Ma- 
dame de  Saintlieu  indeed  listened,  with  strict  polite- 
ness ;  but  she  did  no  more — not  even  by  a  lifting  of 
the  eyebrows,  indicating  that  she  took  any  further  in- 
terest in  what  she  heard,  than  that  which  was  self-im- 
posed by  that  deference  which  is  the  foundation  of 
good  breeding. 

Seeing  that  her  tiresome  companion,  with  whose  ri- 
diculous airs  and  affectations  she  was  thoroughly  wea- 
ried, had  at  length  stopped  the  stream  of  her  insane 


28  UUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

twaddle,  Madame  de  Saintlieu  quietly  released  herself, 
and  went  towards  Mrs.  Valentine,  who  immediately 
presented  Mrs.  Captain  Wallingford,  and  two  or  three 
other  ladies,  who  had  just  arrived. 

Madame  de  Saintlieu,  whether  owing  to  the  patro- 
nage of  two  such  powerful  friends  as  Mrs.  Loftus  and 
Mrs.  Valentine,  or  to  the  favourable  impression  she 
had  made, — or  probably  to  both — found  herself  a  uni- 
versal favourite.  She  was  not  strikingly  beautiful, 
and  there  was  nothing  in  her  appearance  to  alarm  the 
envy  or  pride  of  other  women,  who  only  judged  of 
character  by  outside  appearance.  Indeed,  there  was 
something  so  unpretending,  so  absolutely  quiet  and 
unconscious  in  Madame  de  Saintlieu's  manner,  that 
she  stole  imperceptibly  upon  you,  like  a  simamer  twi- 
light, until  at  last  you  are  startled  into  looking  up, 
and  find  that  night  with  all  her  starry  glories  is  smiling 
mysteriously  upon  you. 

It  was  agreed  nem.  con.,  that  Madame  de  Saintlieu's 
first  appearance  should  take  place  at  Mrs.  Valentine's 
on  the  next  Wednesday,  and  that  the  occasion  should 
be  as  exclusive  and  distinguished  as  possible;  espe- 
cially, as  the  Hendersons — another  acknowledged 
^' first  family,"  into  whose  circles,  Mrs.  Valentine  and 
her  set  could  no  more  penetrate,  than  Apollyon  into 
heaven — were  to  give  one  of  their  grand  double-dis- 
tilled, exclusive  dinners,  on  the  same  day.  It  would, 
of  course,  be  a  splendid  triumph,  to  have  a  successful 
"sensation,"  without  their  help,  and  in  direct  opposi- 
tion to  them."    Mrs.  Loftus  suggested,  in  the  interest 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  29 

of  her  protege^  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  that  this  ar- 
rangement might  perhaps  keep  some  persons  away, 
who  would  otherwise  gladly  attend;  for  though  the 
heads  of  the  Valentine  and  Henderson  factions  were 
at  as  bitter  odds  as  Montague  and  Capulet,  yet  their 
partisans,  mollified  by  the  modern  necessities  of  calico 
and  cotton,  exchange  and  speculation,  occasionally 
commingled  in  society.  Mrs.  Loftus'  suggestions,  how- 
ever, were  disregarded.  Mrs.  Valentine,  who  had  re- 
cently suffered  two  or  three  bitter  mortifications  at  the 
hands  of  her  rival,  which  galled  her  the  more,  as  she 
found  it  totally  impossible  to  resent  them,  would  hear 
of  no  postponement.  The  idea  of  being  the  first  to 
introduce  a  private  morning  concert,  embellished  by 
the  appearance  of  a  foreigner  of  undoubted  family  and 
position  in  Europe,  such  as  was  Madame  de  Saintlieu, 
had  taken  complete  possession  of  her.  She  offered 
to  take  all  the  unsold  tickets,  and  told  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Glacee,  that  she  must  be  sure  and  come  the  next  day, 
to  assist  her  in  making  the  necessary  preparations  for 
having  the  affair  come  off  with  all  possible  magnificence 
and  eclat. 

Madame  de  Saintlieu,  having  expressed  her  warm- 
est thanks  for  the  interest  taken  in  her,  and  received 
the  most  pressing  invitations  on  all  sides,  took  leave 
of  her  new  friends,  while  a  smile  of  hope  lit  up  her 
face,  with  something  more  brilliant,  more  attractive 
than  beauty — with  the  electric  light  of  feeling. 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend,"  she  exclaimed  to  Mrs.  Lof- 
tus, as  they  drove  homeward,  ''  how  shall  I  ever  thank 

3* 


30  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

you  for  your  delicate  kindness  ?  I  shall,  then,  really 
be  able,  by  my  own  exertions,  to  take  the  place  of 
fortune  to  my  dear  little  children,  and  to  keep  them 
near  me  !  Thanks,  thanks  !  You  know  not  how  deeply 
I  feel  it  all  here! "  and  taking  her  friend's  hand,  she 
kissed  it  and  placed  it  upon  her  heart. 

"Reserve  your  gratitude,  my  dear  madame,"  replied 
Mrs.  Loftus,  with  her  placid  smile,  "you  do  not  yet 
know  our  fashionable  society.  You  will  find,  I  fear, 
that  they  are  as  mean  and  paltry  in  fact,  as  they  are 
ostentatious  in  profession.  However,  the  affair  is  fa- 
vourably started,  and  I  think  that  the  vanity  of  your 
lady  patroness  will  induce  them  to  make  it  at  least 
moderately  successful.  But  you  cannot  conceive  how 
tenaciously  our  grandiloquent  parvenu  aristocracy 
cling  to  their  dollars.  By  the  way,  what  did  you 
really  think  of  Mr.  Wilmar's  playing  ?  I  am  a  poor 
judge  of  music,  you  know." 

"  I  think  him  a  man  of  genius,  unquestionably,  but 
he  will  fritter  himself  away  with  nervousness.  He  has 
no  manner — no  repose." 

"Alas! — with  a  sick  mother  and  two  young  sisters 
to  support,  he  has  little  time  to  acquire  repose,  or  even 
necessary  practice." 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  replied  Madame  de  Saintlieu, 
as  if  half  speaking  to  herself,  and  half  replying  to  her 
friend's  remark,  "he  has  certainly  genius — poor  fel- 
low !     I  wish  I  could  help  him !  " 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  31 


CHAPTER  III. 


PREPARING  FOR  THE  GRAND  EVENT. 

The  next  day  betimes,  the  docile  and  devoted  Mrs 
Glacee  repaired  to  Mrs.  Valentine's,  to  commence  ac- 
tive preparations  for  the  great  event.  Early  as  she 
was,  however,  she  found  a  formidable  areopagus  al- 
ready assembled.  There  was  Mrs.  Balderskin,  a  hand- 
some and  audacious  woman,  who  stood  up  for  woman's 
rights,  and  stoutly  contended  that  ladies  in  private  life, 
had  as  good  a  right  to  display  their  charms  to  the  pub- 
lic, and  to  enjoy  a  free  and  easy  life,  as  actresses,  and 
other  less  reputable  women.  She  boldly  illustrated 
her  theory  by  practice  and  example  ;  and  Mrs.  Bal- 
derskin's  bare  and  handsome  shoulders,  decolleUe  to 
the  extremest  boundary  permitted  even  by  the  fashion 
of  that  time,  or  to  be  seen,  any  where  out  of  a  paint- 
er's studio,  or  a  nursery,  were  conspicuously  to  be 
seen  at  the  theatre,  opera,  concert,  soiree,  and  conver- 
sazione. Other  women,  like  Mrs.  Glacee,  who  had  no 
shoulders,  and  consequently  maintained  a  stout  and 
effective  defence  of  their  virtue,  as  General  Jackson 
did  not  defend  New  Orleans-— behind  cotton  breast- 


82  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

works — whispered,  and  pretty  loudly,  too,  that  Mrs. 
Balderskin's  conduct  was  by  no  means  so  immaculate 
as  her  shoulders. — Little,  however,  did  she  care  for 
that.  The  most  powerful  temptation  to  a  handsome 
woman,  is  the  envy  and  scandal  which  her  successes 
provoke.  Mrs.  Balderskin  was  rich,  young,  healthy, 
and  her  husband  was  as  contented  as  she  was,  to  fol- 
low his  own  caprices,  and  leave  her  to  the  enjoyment 
of  hers.  She  had  but  one  passion — the  desire  of  being 
conspicuous ;  and  to  gratify  this,  she  was  determined 
to  pay  any  price.  Exactly  such  a  woman  as  she  was, 
thrown  upon  the  world  without  money  or  position, 
would  inevitably  have  become  what  we  need  not  charac- 
terize. As  it  was,  she  was  one  of  those  dangerous  and 
demoralizing  characters,  of  which  our  unsifted  society 
contains  far  too  many  specimens,  and  whose  respecta- 
hility  is  a  living  libel  on  the  institutions  and  principles 
of  that  society,  which  recognises  and  protects  them. 

Seated  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Balderskin,  was  a  fair, 
fat  and  forty  old  maid,  who  still  fancied  herself  a  young 
one,  and  was  perpetually  in  a  fever  of  trepidation  as 
to  the  effect  she  was  producing.  For  days  before  her 
appeal  an  ce  on  any  grand  occasion,  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  scouring  the  city,  (for' she  knew  everybody,) 
and  going  from  house  to  house,  among  her  acquain- 
tances, soliciting  their  opinion  as  to  whether  she  looked 
best  in  red  or  green,  and  what  effect  she  would  be 
likely  to  produce  in  this  head-dress,  or  that  cape. — 
When  actually  in  society,  she  seemed  to  be  sitting  on 
nettles,  and  was  perpetually  getting  up,  walking  about, 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  33 

sitting  down,  and  tken  walking  about  again,  and  try- 
ing to  read,  in  the  countenances  of  others,  what  kind 
of  a  success  she  was  then  and  there  achieving.  But 
alas!  Miss  Jemimah  Jenkins  was  the  only  person 
whose  thoughts  or  ideas  were  in  the  least  occupied 
with  the  appearance  or  movements  of  Miss  Jemimah 
Jenkins.  She  had  years  since  been  unanimously  voted 
an  intolerable  bore ;  and  though  she  was  wealthy,  of 
the  most  extra-virtuous  behaviour,  and  really  quite 
good-looking,  every  body  dreaded  to  encounter  her. 
The  worst  of  it  all  was,  that  her  self-complacence  was 
so  intense,  that  she  sincerely  believed  in  her  own  im- 
portance, and  mistook  the  frequent  symptoms  of  im- 
patience which  her  presence  excited,  for  envy  of  her 
superior  charms  and  fascinations.  To  her  mind,  wo- 
man had  but  one  mission,  which  was  to  excite  the  ad- 
miration of  men — but  one  duty,  which  was  to  disap- 
point the  hopes  which  that  admiration  inspired.  In 
this  double  self-imposed  struggle,  poor  Miss  Jenkins 
had  a  hard  time  of  it — yet  it  must  be  confessed,  that 
the  continual  contests  with  the  monster  man,  to  which 
she  submitted,  with  the  smiling  confidence  and  courage 
of  a  martyr,  seemed  to  agree  marvellously  well  with 
her.  She  was  still  round  and  ruddy — ate  and  slept 
remarkably  well — and,  but  that  she  would  insist  upon 
surmounting  her  brown  wig  with  preposterous  garlands 
of  japonicas  and  orange  flowers,  and  insisted  upon 
having  her  frocks  made  with  waists  cl  la  vierge,  like 
those  of  babies,  she  might  have  passed  through  this 


34  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

great  lunatic  asylum,  which  we  call  the  world,  without 
oeing  considered  one  of  its  most  incorrigible  inmates* 

"Well,  now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Valentine,"  said  Miss 
Jenkins,  after  she  had  carefully  taken  off  her  shawl 
before  the  looking-glass,  put  up  her  foot  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair,  to  examine  the  effect  of  her  ankle  in  a  new 
flesh-coloured  silk  stocking,  settled  her  wig,  and  given 
an  infantile  twist  to  the  left  shoulder  of  her  dress; 
"now  then,  tell  us  all  about  this  wonderful  morning 
concert.  You  have  been  in  Paris  and  London,  and 
know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  affair.  When  is  it  to 
begin?  Not  before  ten  o'clock,  I  hope — I  am  so 
sleepy  of  mornings,  that  I  really  sometimes  think  I 
can't  be  done  growing  yet.     He  !  he  !  " 

"Madame  de  Saintlieu  and  myself  have  already 
agreed  about  the  time,"  replied  Mrs.  Valentine,  with 
an  assumed  gravity  and  importance.  "  The  concert  is 
to  begin  at  three  o'clock." 

"Three  o'clock!  why,  that's  an  afternoon  concert." 

"So  it  is,  Mrs.  Balderskin,"  broke  in  Miss  Jenkins; 
"and  how  is  a  body  to  know  how  to  dress,  at  such  an 
extraordinary  time  of  day?  In  evening  or  dinner 
dress,  I  suppose,  of  course.  By  the  way,  Mrs.  Glacce, 
do  you  think  I  look  best  by  daylight  in  my  blue  and 
gold,  or  my  crimson-flowered  brocade?" 

"No  one  wears  any  thing  but  a  morning  dress  at  a 
morning  concert.  Miss  Jenkings,"  said  Mrs.  Glacee; 
"the  very  name  expresses  the  idea." 

"  But  /  shall,  though,  my  dear  Mrs.  Glac6e.  I  can't 
bear  to  sit  in  a  crowded  drawing-room,  or  theatre  with 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  35 

my  neck  and  shoulders  muffed  up  like  a  sea-captain's. 
Let  every  one  dress  according  to  her  own  taste  or  ne- 
cessities.    I  shall  go  in  full  dress." 

"Well,  well,  never  mind,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Valentine, 
who  saw  an  angry  cloud  rising  to  the  brow  of  her  om- 
bra,  Mrs.  Glacee,  whose  shoulders,  no  more  than  her 
neighbour's  reputation,  would  not  bear  a  too  free  ex- 
posure. "Fine  enough,  for  all  that.  The  present 
question  is,  about  the  invitations.  Ellen,  you  make 
out  a  list,  as  far  as  you  can  recollect,  and  I  will  draw 
up  the  form  of  invitation." 

Mrs.  Glacee  went  to  work  at  her  list,  and  Mrs.  Va- 
lentine at  her  form  of  invitation.  After  a  severe  la- 
bour, and  a  general  consultation  with  the  others,  the 
following  formula  was  produced : 

"Mrs.  Valentine  will  be  happy  to  receive  Mr.  and 
Mrs. ,  on  Wednesday,  for  the  purpose  of  attend- 
ing a  morning  concert,  to  be  given  by  Madame  de 
Saintlieu,  at  her  house. 

"To  commence  at  3  o'clock. 

"Tickets  $3." 

"  Oh,  that's  a  great  deal  too  much !"  exclaimed  Miss 
Jenkins ;  "  why,  you  can  hear  Jenny  Lind  for  that, — 
and  Madame  de  Saintlieu  has  no  name  as  an  artist." 

"Well,  I  think  myself  it's  too  much,"  said  Mrs.  Bal- 
derskin,  touching  her  lips  with  a  seventy-five  dollar 
pocket-handkerchief.  "No  doubt  this  Madame  de 
Saintlieu  is  all  very  well  in  her  way — but  then,  no 
matter  what  she  may  have  been,  remember  she  is  now 
only  an  artist.     However,  it  is  certainly  worth  some- 


3r>  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

thing  to  be  exclusive,  and  not  be  pushed  and  elbowed 
about  by  the  vulgar  rabble.  Let  us  put  the  price  at 
two  dollars." 

"Agreed,"  said  Mrs.  Valentine,  who  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  shop-keeping  habits  of  her  country- 
men, and  whose  standard  had  been  fixed  by  Madame 
Saintlieu,  at  two  dollars.  The  deduction  in  prices 
was  therefore  made ;  and  every  body  pleased  at  the 
immense  economy  thus  effected. 

The  next  question  was,  how  the  invitations  should 
be  prepared — whether  written  or  printed,  whether  in 
the  form  of  notes  or  cards.  One  thought  an  engraved 
card  would  be  the  most  stylish, — another  suggested 
written  notes,,  enclosing  a  programme  of  the  music, 
printed  on  pink  satin.  Finally,  the  written  note  was 
decided  on,  as  being  most  aristocratic,  but  the  pro- 
gramme was  voted  decidedly  vulgar,  and  was  therefo.  e 
dispensed  with. 

Mrs.  Glacee  was  then  set  to  writing  the  notes,  as  fast 
as  she  could.  Miss  Jemimah,  who  was  tremendously 
good-natured,  as  we  have  said,  and  had  a  most  violent 
penchant  for  making  herself  useful,  offered  to  assist ; 
and  as  she  wrote  very  prettily, — though  sometimes 
hesitating  a  good  while  to  ascertain  which  way  the 
curl  of  a  g's  tail  would  look  best,  whether  turned  to 
the  right  or  left,  she  made  but  slow  progress. 

The  other  ladies,  seeing  things  so  fairly  under  way, 
now  went  away,  to  prosecute  their  shopping  and  other 
avocations.  Mrs.  Balderskin,  looking  at  her  watch, 
vowed  that  she  did  not  know  it  was  so  late,  and  liur- 


OTT}{   FTKST  FAMILIES.  37 

ried  off  in  evident  trepidation,  lest  she  should  be  too 
late  for  some  appointment.  Any  one  who  had  seen 
the  shrugs  and  smiles,  exchanged  between  Mrs.  Valen- 
tine and  Mrs.  Glac6e,  as  she  went  out,  would  have 
been  at  no  loss  to  guess  its  probable  character. 


38  UTIR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


Let  us  get  in  the  omnibus,  reader.  The  '^  store  "  is 
a  long  way  off,  and  we  can  have  a  good  ride  for  our 
fip.  And,  as  lucky  as  if  it  were  in  a  play,  here  comes 
Mr.  Henderson  himself,  to  bear  us  company.  The 
driver  has  caught  the  commanding  wave  of  his  cane  : 
and  though  Mr.  Henderson's  fip  isn't  actually  worth 
any  more  than  our  own — sometimes,  in  fact,  not  so 
much,  as  the  great  merchant,  in  making  up  his  cash 
account,  puts  a  ''short  fip  "  into  his  waist-coat  pocket, 
especially  for  the  omnibus — still  the  driver  feels  an 
involuntary  sentiment  of  respect  for  his  wealthy  cus- 
tomer, and  pulls  up  close  to  the  curb-stone,  although 
it  isn't  at  all  muddy,  and  Mr.  Henderson's  boots  are 
not  remarkably  clean.  But  that  is  nothing — every 
body  knows  him,  from  the  Schuylkill  to  "the  Coast." 
His  store,  one  of  the  largest,  wealthiest,  and  longest- 
established  in  the  city,  is  the  universal  resort  of  the 
wives  and  daughters  of  the  wealthy  residents,  who  can 
make  their  purchases  there,  at  a  much  lower  rate  than  in 
the  fashionable,  show-window  establishments  of  Chest- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  3f^ 

nut  street.  Mr.  Henderson  is  a  quaker — a  descendant 
of  one  of  the  early  settlers  on  the  banks  of  the  Dela- 
ware— a  companion  and  friend  of  William  Penn,  and 
a  sharer  with  that  great  patriot  and  patriarch,  in  the 
gigantic  profits  of  some  of  his  "fair  business  transac- 
tions" with  the  Indians.  The  poor  Indians!  Surely 
their  fate  has  been  a  hard  one.  Cheated  or  slaugh- 
tered,  and  maddened  by  bad  whisky,  depopulated  by 
small  pox  and  other  civilized  diseases,  they  have  been 
trundled  off  and  out  of  existence,  with  very  little  cere- 
mony, to  make  room  for  Young  America,  and  his  he- 
terogeneous family  of  pedlars,  speculators,  and  hard 
diggers.  If  the  benevolent  old  patriarch  Penn  was  a 
shrewd  calculator,  and  drove  hard  bargains  with  the 
natives,  still  his  treatment  looks  like  positive  fatherly 
kindness,  compared  with  the  bloody  extermination  of 
the  race  by  the  settlers  of  other  portions  of  the  coun- 
try. 

However  the  quaker  of  modern  days  may  have  de- 
teriorated in  point  of  humanity  and  benevolence,  from 
the  standard  of  William  Penn,  he  has  at  any  rate  lost 
nothing  of  the  bargain-making  and  wealth-acquiring 
faculties  which  distinguished  the  great  prototype  and 
model  of  the  sect.  The  quaker,  in  our  days,  is,  on  a 
large  scale,  what  the  degenerated  sons  of  Israel  are 
on  a  small  one.  The  passion  of  getting,  and  the  en- 
joyment of  keeping,  are  the  only  sentiments  which  he 
permits  to  remain  active  in  his  bosom.  All  the  other 
feelings,  passions,  and  affections  of  his  nature  are 
distilled  down  into  the  tasteless,  spiritless,  colourless 


40  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

consistence  of  duties — duties  prescribed  bj  law,  and 
public  opinion,  and  so  far  scrupulously  performed; 
but  duties  which  do  not  prevent  extortion,  over-reach- 
ing, oppression  of  the  poor,  fraud  in  trade,  a  life  of 
falsehood  and  dishonesty,  such  as,  were  it  not  regula- 
ted by  a  sagacious  knowledge  of  the  laws  and  technica- 
lities of  trade — by  a  careful  study  of  the  art  of  playing 
upon  the  miseries,  the  indiscretions,  and  the  passions, 
of  mankind — and  by  a  sleepless  self-control,  that  never 
deserts  or  betrays  him,  even  in  his  hours  of  love  and 
endearment,  (if  he  have  any,) — would  cover  him  with 
infamy  as  a  cheat  and  swindler. 

Much  of  this  is  doubtless  owing  to  the  hypocritical, 
hollow  and  false  spirit  of  trade  engendered  by  the  fierce 
commercial  rivalry  of  the  times,  and  the  universal  ex- 
travagance, heartlessness  and  rivalries  of  the  women 
of  our  commercial  classes.  But  the  quaker  cannot 
plead  the  necessities  of  his  family  and  kindred,  for  his 
griping  and  unscrupulous  avarice — because  the  tenets 
of  his  creed  strictly  forbid  extravagance,  ostentation, 
and  display  of  all  kinds.  The  covetousness  of  the 
quaker  is  a  problem  which  has  never  been  solved,  and 
yet  it  seems  to  be  capable  of  a  natural  solution.  It  is 
the  love  of  power,  subjected  to  a  rigid  logical  action. 
The  quaker  sees  that  wealth  is  the  one  great  end  and 
aim  of  mankind,  and  that  this  wealth  either  eludes  the 
grasp  of  the  great  majority,  or  else  is  squandered  as 
fast  as  acquired,  through  the  activity  of  the  passions 
— especially  those  of  social  rivalry,  gambling  and  love. 
Now,  if  he  can  subdue  the  passions,  and  leave  the  in- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  41 

tellect  alone  to  work,  the  chances  of  success  are  infi- 
nitely multiplied.  By  destroying  a  suppressing  pride, 
the  quaker  can  stoop  to  humiliations,  meannesses,  de- 
ceptions, and  innumerable  tricks  and  devices,  from 
which  a  proud  man  would  revolt.  By  extinguishing 
love,  both  conjugal  and  fraternal,  and  substituting  a 
decent  and  respectable  observance  of  the  conventionali- 
ties of  the  household,  he  cuts  oif  at  once  the  great  mo- 
tive of  imprudence,  recklessness,  and  extravagance, 
both  on  the  part  of  himself  and  his  family,  and  shields 
himself  plausibly  from  refusing  all  favours,  kind- 
nesses or  obligations,  for  his  neighbours  and  associates. 
Thus,  by  sweeping  away,  or  for  confining  in  the  re- 
cesses of  his  own  bosom,  all  the  passions  and  feelings 
which  lead  to  the  spending  of  money,  and  developing 
to  its  keenest  activity  the  intellect,  which  is  the  me- 
dium of  getting  it,  the  way  to  riches  and  power  is 
open.  Individuals  who  act  upon  this  theory  are  often 
met  in  the  world  at  large — and  always  among  the  rich. 
In  fact,  save  here  and  there,  by  inheritance  or  acci- 
dent, or  some  immense  and  successful  scheme  of  legal 
humbug  or  rascality,  scarcely  any  man  in  this  country 
ever  does  become  rich  on  any  other  theory. 

But  the  quakers  are  the  only  sect  who  have  em- 
bodied and  expanded  this  theory  into  a  doctrine,  and 
organized  upon  it  a  distinctive  social  body.  The  con- 
sequence is,  that  the  quakers  are  all  rich — that  is, 
every  quaker  is  much  richer  than  a  man  of  the  same 
intellectual  organization  and  personal  advantages  as 

himself,  in  the  profane  world.     Quakerism  is  literally 

4* 


42  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

the  golden  creed — the  religion  of  money — the  living, 
vital,  daily  worship  of  Mammon,  the  only  material 
deity,  from  Paganism  to  our  own  times,  possessing  the 
power  and  the  will  to  reward  his  votaries. 

Any  man  can  become  a  quaker,  either  openly  or  by 
the  secret  practice  of  his  life — any  man  can  sell  his 
soul  and  still  keep  his  mind;  and  it  is  frightful  to  see 
how  this  horrible  crime  of  moral  mutilation  is  spread- 
ing and  multiplying  among  us.  As  in  the  times  of 
luxury,  men  were  deprived  of  their  manhood,  that  they 
might  acquire  brilliant  voices,  so  our  modern  artificers 
of  wealth,  divest  themselves  of  heart  and  feeling,  of 
love  and  sympathy,  and  of  the  godlike  happiness  of 
doing  good  to  others,  that  they  may  clutch  and  hold 
fast  the  glittering  symbols  of  power.  Detestable  in- 
sanity !  Self-immolating  egotism  !  that  withers  every 
noble,  tender,  beautiful,  and  holy  thing  in  nature,  and 
makes  the  world  a  hell ! 

Mr.  Henderson  was  born  and  educated  a  quaker,  of 
the  pui^est  and  strictest  school.  He  was  of  a  powerful 
mental  organization,  and  the  early  and  systematic  re- 
pression of  the  natural  sympathies,  afi"ections,  and  inspi- 
rations, had  imparted  to  his  grasping  intellect  a  cold 
and  remorseless  contempt  for  mankind  a  misanthropic 
hatred  of  refinement,  of  women,  and  of  every  form  of 
art  and  pleasure — things  which,  had  he  dared,  he  would 
80  boundlessly  have  enjoyed !  Add  to  this  being,  the 
most  exquisite  self-control  of  voice,  manner,  and  fea- 
ture— a  hypocrisy  so  perfect  as  to  appear  almost  sublime 
— and  the  character  of  Ira  Henderson  is  before  you. 


OUR  FIKST  FAMILIES.  43 

Mr.  Henderson  had  inherited  a  large  portion  of  his 
present  enormous  wealth.  As  we  have  said,  his  an- 
cestor was  among  the  companions  of  Penn,  and  was 
one  of  the  first  to  establish  regular  mercantile  business 
in  Philadelphia.  For  several  generations,  the  name, 
the  business,  and  the  patrimony,  had  been  regularly 
transmitted.  The  firm  of  Ira  Henderson  and  Son,  had 
been  familiar  to  every  succeeding  generation  of  Phi- 
ladelphians,  and  had  now  almost  become  one  of  the 
municipal  archives.  But  the  present  owner  of  the 
name,  had  quadrupled  at  least  the  wealth  he  had  in- 
herited. A  series  of  fortunate  mercantile  ventures, 
under  his  careful  management,  had  poured  thousands 
upon  thousands  into  the  treasury  of  the  house  ;  but  it 
had  received  its  greatest  and  most  brilliant  accession 
from  a  transaction  which  took  place  some  few  years 
before  the  commencement  of  our  story,  and  might  be 
called  his  crowning  financial  achievement. 

Of  this  achievement,  the  exigencies  of  our  story  re- 
quire that  we  should  give  a  brief  account.  Those  who, 
in  a  novel,  always  skip  such  things  as  explanations, 
and  hurry  on  to  the  dialogues  and  the  catastrophies, 
must  content  themselves  either  with  misunderstanding 
and  puzzling  themselves  in  vain  over  the  dramatic  de- 
velopcment  of  our  narrative,  or  else  with  humbly  re- 
curring to  this  and  the  following  chapter,  and  fui'nish- 
ing  themselves  with  the  requisite  information. 

Although  the  quakers  trust  nobody,  either  in  friend- 
ship or  business,  yet  they  do  not  at  all  object  to  others 
trusting  in  them.     On  the  contrary,  one  of  their  most 


44  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

cherished  objects,  is  to  inspire  the  coDfidence  of  th« 
commimitv,  in  their  strict  and  punctilious  good  faith, 
especially  in  matters  of  money  and  fiduciary  trust; 
and  so  willing  is  that  ass,  society,  to  take  every  one 
at  his  own  valuation,  and  bray  in  concert  with  him  who 
blows  his  own  trumpet  the  loudest,  that  thousands  have 
l)een  completely  ruined  by  this  fashionable  and  impli- 
cit trust,  without  ever  even  suspecting  the  dishonesty 
and  hypocrisy  that  had  destroyed  them,  but  which  had 
succeeded  in  diverting  the  attention  of  their  victim  in 
an  entirely  opposite  direction. 

It  is  to  one  of  these  transactions,  in  which  the  pre- 
sent Mr.  Henderson  had  been  a  lordly  though  infa- 
mous gainer,  that  we  must  now  allude. 

Among  the  acquaintances — we  should  say  friends, 
if  such  men  ever  had  friends — of  Mr.  Henderson,  was 
a  gentleman  about  his  own  age,  named  Wilmar.  Mr. 
Wilmar  was  a  man  of  very  great  wealth,  and  of  an 
elegant  and  highly  cultivated  taste.  Having  succeed- 
ed early  in  life  in  amassing  a  fortune  which  would 
have  satisfied  any  body  but  a  miser,  and  which  sup- 
plied a  princely  income  without  touching  the  capital, 
he  had  retired  from  business  at  fifty,  and  devoted  the 
remainder  of  his  life  to  the  enjoyment,  in  the  bosom 
of  his  beloved  family,  of  all  the  refined  happiness  which 
wealth,  taste,  and  mutual  affection  could  bestow, — to 
which  was  added  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  a  discrimi- 
nating and  far-reaching  benevolence,  dispensed  under 
the  direct  superintendence  of  Mrs.  Wilmar  herself. 

They  had  three  daughters,  all  born  within  the  first 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  45 

ten  years  of  their  marriage,  and  a  much  younger  son 
— a  blessing  long  prayed  and  waited  for,  and  who  gave 
promise,  even  in  his  childish  years,  of  every  thing  his 
doting  parents  and  sisters  had  hoped.  Tender,  affec- 
tionate, and  sensitive  as  a  girl,  he  was  the  idol  of  the 
whole  family,  yet  he  was  not  spoilt.  The  natural  good- 
ness of  the  boy  himself,  as  well  as  the  excellent  judg- 
ment and  careful  nurture  of  both  his  father  and  mother, 
prevented  him  from  becoming  either  selfish  or  wilful. 
Wayward  he  certainly  sometimes  was — dreaming,  ex- 
citable, enthusiastic,  even  passionate.  But  in  none  of 
these  moods  did  he  indicate  any  intrinsically  evil  pro- 
pensities. On  the  contrary,  in  very  early  years  he  be- 
trayed the  possession  of  that  peculiar  and  mysterious 
organization  whose  results  are  what  men  call  genius, 
and  which,  nine  times  in  ten,  are  a  life-long  curse  to 
their  possessor.  Geniuses  are  generally  born  and  re- 
main, poor:  and  genius  itself,  from  the  exquisiteness 
of  its  physical  as  well  as  mental  organization,  demands 
a  large  enjoyment  of  physical  pleasure,  and  seeks  ever 
to  surround  itself  with  material  luxury.  Add  to  this, 
its  inherent  disdain  for  money,  and  for  all  the  methods 
and  processes  of  obtaining  or  keeping  it — and  the  po- 
verty and  misery  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  genius 
will  no  longer  excite  our  wonder. 

But  such  did  not  threaten  to  be  the  fate  of  the  young 
Arthur  Wilmar.     Like  the  princes  and  princesses  of 
the  Byzantine  empire,  he  was  born  in  the  purple^  and 
opened  his  eyes  only  to  luxury,  indulgence,  and  hap 
piness.     Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilmar,  as  well  as  the 


46  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

sisters,  eagerly  watched  and  tended  the  developement 
of  the  infant  son  and  brother-  The  father  saw  in  him 
the  worthy  representative  of  his  countless  wealth  and 
spotless  name ;  his  mother  doted  on  him  with  that  sur- 
passing love  known  only  by  mothers  for  the  youngest- 
born,  who  comes  long  after  she  has  ceased  to  hope  for 
so  much  happiness,  to  sustain  and  bless  her  declining 
years.  The  sisters  were  emulous  of  each  other  in  their 
attentions  to  their  young  brother,  and  already  looked 
forward  to  the  time  when  his  manly  arm  should  be 
held  out  to  guide  and  protect  them.  His  future  career 
was  the  daily  subject  of  loving  discussion;  and  his 
father  had  already  endeavoured  to  analyze  the  peculiar 
character  of  his  son,  with  a  view  to  the  most  appro- 
priate career  for  him  to  embrace. 

But  these  fair  and  happy  prospects  were  suddenly 
clouded ;  and  in  the  tempest  that  followed,  all  these 
brilliant  hopes  were  dashed  to  the  ground.  Mr.  Wil- 
mar,  having  taken  a  severe  cold,  in  consequence  of  a 
drenching  which  he  had  got  from  a  sudden  shower, 
during  one  of  his  daily  rides  on  horseback,  was  seized 
with  a  violent  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  which  in  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  assumed  a  threatening  aspect. 
The  children  cowered,  terror-stricken,  in  their  rooms, 
listening  breathlessly  to  every  sound  that  went  through 
the  house,  as  if  it  were  laden  with  some  dreadful  in- 
telligence. 

The  wife  alone  was  firm,  and,  apparently,  unmoved. 
Except  that  she  was  very  pale,  and  there  was  a  ner- 
vous trembling  in  her  hands,  which  were  cold  and  clam- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  47 

my,  she  received  the  family  physician,  as  if  upon  one 
of  his  ordinary  visits. 

"Good  morning,  madam,"  said  Dr.  Felton,  cheer- 
fully, as  he  came  in.  "I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  Mr. 
Wilmar  is  ailing.  An  indigestion,  or  a  cold,  I  sup- 
pose.    We  must  set  him  to  rights,  directly." 

''  He  was  in  much  suffering  during  the  night,  doc- 
tor :  he  has  a  very  high  fever,  and  appears  to  me  to 
be  very  ill.  I  am  thankful  that  John  found  you  at 
home.     Pray,  come  up  stairs  directly." 

The  doctor  saw  instantly  that  the  case  was  much 
more  serious  than  he  had  supposed.  His  patient  was 
evidently  very  ill. 

"Why,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he,  hastening  to  the 
bed,  and  taking  the  sick  man's  hand;  "why  did  you 
not  send  for  me  last  night  ?  How  long  have  you  been 
in  this  way? — How  did  it  come  on?" 

Wilmar' s  lips  were  parched  with  fever,  and  he  spoke 
with  difficulty.  Mrs.  Wilmar,  though  trembling  with 
anxiety,  at  what  she  read  in  the  physician's  counte- 
nance, clearly  and  concisely  explained  the  circum- 
stances, and  stated  that  it  was  by  her  husband's  ex- 
press desire  that  she  had  not  disturbed  him  in  the  night. 

"  Disturbed,  my  dear  friend !  Preposterous !  I  am 
disturbed  perpetually  with  all  sorts  of  trivial  com- 
plaints.    You  should  have  sent  for  me  at  once." 

Mrs.  Wilmar  uttered  a  faint  shriek ;  but  restraining 
herself  by  a  violent  exertion,  she  took  her  husband's 
hot  hand,  which  the  doctor  had  let  fall,  and  pressed  it 
to  her  bosom. 


48  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"Come,  come,  my  good  friends!"  said  the  doctor: 
"  I  hope  no  serious  harm  has  been  done  by  the  delay. 
We  only  want  a  little  patience  and  good  nursing — 
and  I  am  sure,"  looking  kindly  at  Mrs.  Wilmar,  "we 
know  where  to  expect  them — and  every  thing  will  be 
right.     Courage,  my  dear  lady — courage  !  " 

But  we  must  not  dwell  upon  this  scene.  The  reader 
has  already  divined  the  result.  The  inexorable  mes- 
senger had  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  rich  and  happy 
man,  in  full  career  of  life,  with  every  blessing  smiling 
around  him,  and  expanding  on  every  side  in  long  vistas 
of  hope  and  happiness — while  he  had  passed  unnoticed, 
the  weary  and  heart-broken,  waiting  impatiently  for 
his  summons,  writhing  in  pain  upon  their  miserable 
pallets,  and  longing  to  bid  adieu  to  the  world  in  which 
they  had  found  no  place. 

On  the  third  day,  Dr.  Felton  found  his  patient  alone. 
His  wife,  who  had  not  slept  since  her  husband's  firs^ 
attack,  had  gone  to  her  daughters'  room  for  a  moment's 
repose,  and  had  left  the  sick  room  to  the  care  of  the 
oldest  daughter. 

When  the  doctor  rang  the  bell,  Mr.  Wilmar  called 
his  daughter  to  him. 

"Emma,  darling,"  said  he,  in  a  faint  voice,  taking 
her  hand  and  kissing  it ;  "go  out  now,  for  a  little  while. 
Dr.  Felton  and  I  have  our  ailments  and  medicines  to 
discuss,  which  will  not  be  at  all  intelligible  to  you.  1 
will  send  for  you  in  a  few  moments." 

The  doctor  came  in,  trying  his  best  to  look  cheer- 
fully. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  49 


ii 


Well,"  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands,  with  a  rather 
over-acted  smile ;  "  how  are  we  to-daj,  my  dear  friend? 
Has  that  obstinate  fever  of  ours  taken  his  departure 
yet?" 

"Doctor,"  said  the  patient;  "I  am  glad  that  you 
find  me  alone.  My  wife,  completely  worn  out,  has 
gone  to  lie  down,  and  I  sent  Emma  away  when  I  heard 
you  ring.  Doctor,  I  am  much  worse :  I  do  not  think 
I  shall  get  well.  I  implore  you  to  tell  me  your  candid 
opinion.  It  is  absolutely  indispensable  that  I  should 
make  some  arrangements  respecting  my  worldly  affairs. 
For  God's  sake  do  not  deceive  me :  you  would  perhaps 
be  the  means  of  inflicting  incalculable  misery  upon 
them,  after  I  am  gone." 

"My  excellent  and  noble-hearted  friend,"  replied 
Doctor  Felton,  "  I  am  rejoiced  to  find  you  in  this  frame 
of  mind :  for  although  I  don't  positively  apprehend  any 
danger,  yet  these  diseases — these  violent  fevers — in 
short,  we  are  both  sensible  and  courageous  men,  Wil- 
mar ;  and  there  is  no  harm  in  providing  for  the  worst. 
I  shall  treat  you  like  the  brave  man  I  know  you  to  be. 
There  is,  then,  if  this  confounded  idiopathic  inflamma- 
tion of  the  lungs  is  not  checked — excuse  my  technicali- 
ties," said  he,  with  a  faint  smile — "there  is — there 
might  be — in  fact,  considerable" — 

"I  understand  you,  dear  Felton,"  said  the  patient, 
calmly.  "  You  and  I  have  known  each  other  too  long 
and  too  well  to  play  at  cross  purpose.  I  shall  not  re- 
cover. But  tell  me,  even  at  the  worst,  how  long  or 
how  short  a  time  may  I  expect?" 
5 


50  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  three  or  four  days  will  settle  this 
infernal  inflammation,"  said  the  doctor,  gulping  furious- 
ly at  something  in  his  throat:  "and  then,"  he  added, 
briskly,  "we  can  see,  you  know,  what  the  case  next 
requires." 

"  Precisely,  doctor.  And  now  answer  me  another 
question.  Do  you  consider  Ira  Henderson  a  perfect 
ly  honest  and  faithful  man?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  doctor,  sm-prised.  "Have 
you  any  reason  for  thinking  otherwise?" 

"By  no  means.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  every 
reason  for  confiding  implicitly  in  him.  I  am  glad  your 
judgment  agrees  with  mine." 

"Yes,  it  must  be  so.  If  Ira  Henderson  is  not  ho- 
nest, why  hang  it !  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  ho- 
nesty. His  house  has  for  generations  been  proverbial 
for  its  good  faith." 

"  It  is  true, — it  must  be  so :  I  believe  it.  Will  you 
ride  by  his  store,  and  ask  him  if  he  can  come  and  see 
me,  this  evening,  on  particular  business?" 

"Certainly,  certainly;  but  let  us  hope  for  a  great 
deal  better  things  than  that !  We  do  not  begin  to  de- 
spond yet — not  by  any  means.  Courage!  Courage! 
If  we  can  once  get  the  upper  hand  of  that  devilish  in- 
flammation— God  forgive  me  for  swearing ! — we  shall 
get  on  well  enough.  I  shall  see  you  early  to-morrow, 
and  will  go  round  to  Henderson's  immediately.  Good 
bye!" 

Mrs.  Wilmar,  who  had  got  up,  having  in  vain  tried 
to  sleep,  met  the  doctor  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  51 

"Doctor,  dear  doctor,  is  he  better?"  she  faltered. 

"Not  precisely  better,  as  yet,  my  dear  madam. — 
You  see  these  idiopathic  inflammations,  as  I  have  just 
been  explaining  to  Mr.  Wilmar,  are  very  violent  and 
obstinate  customers.  They  require  patience.  Mean- 
while, you  must  take  some  rest,  or  I  shall  have  you 
upon  my  hands,  too.  Now  promise  me  that  you  will 
take  a  nice  cup  of  tea,  in  your  own  room,  this  evening, 
and  go  quietly  to  bed  and  to  sleep.     Promise!" 

"I  promise." 

"  That's  right,  that's  right.  God  bless  you,  ray  dear 
Mrs.  Wilmar!" 


o"2  ul;k  first  families. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  GAME   OF  "HONEST  QUAKER." 

Since  Mr.  Wilmar  had  retired  from  business,  lie  had 
intrusted  the  entire  management  of  his  wealth,  which 
he  had  converted  into  stocks  and  available  funds,  to 
his  friend  Ira  Henderson,  in  whom  every  one,  as  well 
as  himself,  had  the  most  unbounded  confidence — not 
merely  in  his  good  faith,  for  that  was  a  question  not 
even  thought  of,  so  much  above  suspicion  of  every 
kind  was  he — but  in  his  good  fortune.  Every  thing 
he  touched  prospered;  and  even  in  enterprises  which 
were  on  the  point  of  being  abandoned  as  hopeless,  if 
once  his  name  appeared  among  their  supporters,  every 
thing  was  changed  immediately.  He  was  what  gam- 
blers call  a  lucky  card — the  dread  of  bankers,  and 
whose  bets,  however  at  random,  are  eagerly  followed 
by  the  other  players — and  it  is  notorious,  they  gene- 
rally win. 

Mr.  Wilmar  had,  therefore,  wisely,  as  he  thought, 
placed  his  capital  in  the  hands  of  his  friend,  the  great 
quaker  merchant,  who  was  secretly  concerned  in  one 
of  the  largest  banking-houses  in   Tliird  Street,  and 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  53 

could  profitably  and  safely  employ  any  number  of  mil- 
lions, as  being  a  better  investment  for  his  cliildren, 
than  an  idle  deposit  at  ordinary  interest.  He  had  also 
made  his  will,  a  copy  of  which  was  deposited  with  his 
lawyer,  signed  by  himself,  and  duly  attested,  and  the 
original  confided  to  Mr.  Henderson,  who  was  appointed 
sole  executor  and  administrator,  for  the  equal  bene- 
fit of  his  children.  It  was  not  without  some  well- 
feigned  reluctance,  that  the  ''  honest  quaker  "  had  been 
prevailed  upon  to  assume  so  heavy  a  responsibility. 
But  Wilmar  pressed  him  so  earnestly,  that  he  could 
no  longer  refuse.  So  infatuated  was  Wilmar,  or  ra- 
ther, so  happy  in  the  certainty  of  having  found  so  safe 
and  trustworthy  an  agent  and  executor,  that  he  even 
gave  him  complete  control  of  his  wife's  fortune  as  well 
as  his  own.  It  is  true,  he  had  attempted  to  consult 
her  on  this  point,  but  she  replied  with  a  smile, 

"  My  dear,  my  fortune  is  so  much  more  than  I  de- 
serve that  as  long  as  I  have  you,  I  have  nothing  else 
to  care  for.  Your  judgment  is  mine,  in  this  as  in  all 
things." 

And  so  the  poor  flies  actually  solicited  the  honour 
of  the  sleek  and  honest-looking  spider,  to  be  allowed 
to  walk  into  his  neatly-contrived  cell,  to  be  caught  and 
devoured ! 

At  eight  o'clock,  precisely,  on  the  evening  of  the 
day  in  which  Mr.  "Wilmar  had  sent  for  his  friend  Hen- 
derson, that  worthy  man  rang  the  bell,  and  was  shown 
directly  to  the  sick  man's  room. 

"How  does  thee  do,  friend  Wilmar,"  inquired  the 
5* 


54  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

quaker  in  his  unmodulated  voice,  that  sounded  like 
the  noise  made  by  a  machine,  and  slowly  rubbing  his 
hands,  which  crackled  like  parchment. 

"I  am  very  ill,  my  dear  friend,  and  have  little 
breath  to  waste.  I  have  sent  for  you  to  give  you  my 
last  instructions  respecting  my  family.  I  leave  them 
entirely  in  your  hands,  as,  next  to  my  own,  the  most 
trustworthy  on  earth.  I  have  made  no  change  as  to 
the  final  disposition  of  my  property  among  my  family. 
Every  thing  remains  as  expressed  in  my  will.  All  is 
placed  in  your  hands  for  investment;  and  after  my 
death,  separate  accounts  are  to  be  opened  for  my  wife 
and  each  of  the  children,  so  that  each  shall  be  entirely 
independent,  and  can  withdraw  his  or  her  portion  with- 
out restraint.  As  my  executor,  you  will,  of  course, 
exert  an  influence  over  either  of  the  children,  in  case 
it  should  ever  become  necessary.  But  I  trust  that 
they  will  not  be  intractible." 

"Mh!"  piously  whined  the  honest  quaker,  through 
the  most  orthodox  and  nasal  of  noses. 

"My  greatest  concern,"  continued  Wilmar,  "is  for 
my  son  Arthur.  He  is  now  old  enough  to  think  of 
choosing  his  profession,  and  yet  he  has  indicated  no 
disposition  to  do  so.  He  is  so  absorbed  in  his  musical 
studies,  that  he  thinks  of  nothing  else.  He  told  me 
the  other  day,  with  one  of  his  gay  laughs,  that  he  ac- 
tually believed  he  should  turn  artist." 

"Mh!"  repeated  Mr.  Henderson  commiseratively, 
"it  would  not  appear  that  the  thumping  upon  wires 
with  little  hammers  would  greatly  profit  the  lad's  for- 
tune or  standing  among  his  fellow  men." 


UUR  FIRST  FAxMILIES.  bb 

"  Certainly  not.  Although  I  have  a  profound  reve- 
rence for  art  and  artists, — as  I  know,  my  friend,  you 
have  not, — yet  it  is  not  a  profession  my  son  must 
choose.  He  has  great  talent — genius,  I  am  certain. 
I  had  fondly  hoped  to  watch  him  with  my  own  care, 
and  see  him  fitted  for  one  of  the  great  careers  of  life 
— politics  or  the  law.  But  that  dream  is  over.  The 
Lord's  will  be  done." 

"Mh!" 

"  I  have  said  all,  my  dear  friend.  I  had  nothing 
really  new  to  add  to  my  former  arrangements.  All 
your  affairs  are  going  on  prosperously,  I  hope?  " 

''Providence  be  thank-ed  for  his  mercies,  yes. 
Would  thee  desire,  friend  Wilmar,  to  examine  the  con- 
dition of  my  stewardship  ?  I  will  forthwith  prepare  a 
full  exhibit,  if  thee  wishes." 

"  No,  no,  my  friend,  by  no  means.  I  am  far  too  weak 
to  look  at  it — even  this  conversation  has  exhausted 
me.  Besides,  do  I  not  know  you,  my  old  and  well-tried 
friend?  Have  I  not  trusted  you  as  a  brother,  and 
ever  found  you  true?  Safely,  therefore,  I  commend 
my  dear  ones  to  your  fatherly  care.  You  appear  cold, 
I  know,  and  impassive — but  your  heart  is  in  the  right 
place." 

"Mh!"  again  repeated  the  quaker  Then  rising, 
and  buttoning  his  long  Jesuit's  coat  to  the  very  edge 
of  his  starchless  white  neckerchief,  and  settling  his  low, 
broad-brimmed  felt  hat,  which  he  had  never  removed 
from  his  head,  he  prepared  to  leave  the  room. 

"I  hope  thee'll  be  better  soon,  friend  Wilmar," 


5Q  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

said  he;  "if  thee  needs  me  again,  thee  knows  where 
to  send  for  me: " — and  so,  without  civility  or  courtesy 
of  any  kind,  he  went  down  the  stairs,  and  left  the 
bouse. 

The  presentiments  of  Mr.  Wilmar  as  to  his  own  fate, 
proved  to  be  correct.  In  spite  of  the  skill  of  Dr.  Fel- 
ton,  who  insisted  upon  calling  into  consultation  several 
other  of  the  most  eminent  of  his  brethren — spite  of  the 
unwearied  attentions,  the  prayers,  the  agony  of  Mrs. 
Wilmar  and  his  children,  who  sobbed  and  shrieked 
around  him — he  died  calmly  and  quietly,  on  the  third 
day  after  his  interview  with  Mr.  Henderson. 

The  grief  of  the  wife  was  mortal — past  all  cure. 
A  severe  paralytic  stroke,  brought  on  by  the  violence  of 
her  emotions,  left  her  a  helpless  wreck,  far  more  pitia- 
ble than  death — for  she  might  never  hope  to  recover  life 
in  this  world.  Gently  and  patiently  was  she  watched 
by  her  children,  who  took  turns — Arthur  insisting  upon 
taking  his  tui'n  with  his  sisters — in  attending  to  her 
wants,  and  never  for  a  moment  leaving  her,  night  or 
day. 

For  a  few  months  no  change  occurred  in  their  posi- 
tion— Mr.  Henderson  answering,  as  was  customary, 
all  their  orders  upon  him  for  money.  At  length,  one 
morning,  quite  early,  a  ring  was  heard  at  the  street 
door,  and  Mr.  Henderson  presented  himself  in  the 
breakfast  room,  where  Emma  and  her  sister  Helen, 
with  Arthur,  were  about  commencing  breakfast. 

"  Thee  doesn't  know  me,  young  woman,  does  thee  ? 
But  the  young  man  may  remember  me.  I  am  Ira 
Henderson  thy  father's  executor." 


OUK  FIRST  FAMTLTES.'  57 

"I  know  you,  sir,"  replied  Arthur,  coming  forward 
respectfully,  "as  my  father's  confidential  and  worthy 
friend.  My  sisters  and  myself  have  often  wondered 
that  we  never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you." 

"  Our  people  never  pay  visits  to  the  world's  people, 
except  on  business." 

''  Then  I  am  to  suppose  that  you  have  business  now  ? 
But  pray,  Mr.  Henderson,  at  least  take  a  seat." 

"  I  have  no  time  to  stay.  I  came,  young  man,  to 
tell  you  that  the  bank  where  your  fortune,  as  well  as 
a  great  part  of  my  own,  was  invested,  is  broken.  The 
stock  is  down  to  nothing — the  depositors  will  never 
get  a  cent." 

And  Mr.  Henderson,  casting  an  indescribable  look 
out  of  his  livid  eyes  upon  the  sumptuous  appointments 
of  the  apartment,  left  the  house  without  another  word. 

It  was  not  at  once  that  the  poor  children  could  un- 
derstand the  full  meaning  of  Mr.  Henderson's  commu- 
nication. They  had  heard  the  words,  it  is  true,  but 
their  total  inexperience  of  life,  of  the  value  of  money, 
or  of  the  tenure  of  worldly  possessions,  prevented  them 
from  appreciating  their  real  meaning. 

Arthur  and  his  sisters,  therefore,  said  but  little,  but 
sat  looking  at  each  other  in  distress  and  confusion. 
At  length  Emma  said, 

"Helen,  dear,  go  up  to  mamma's  room,  and  send 
Kate  down  stairs.  She  is  the  only  one  of  us  that 
knows  any  thing  about  business.  Perhaps  she  can 
tell  us  what  it  all  means." 

"Dear  Kate,"  said  Arthur,  "Mr.  Henderson  has  been 


58  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

here,  and  he  says  that  the  hank  is  hroken,  and  that 
we  are  ruined.     What  can  he  mean?  " 

"Nonsense !  "  said  Kate,  "it  must  have  been  a  joke: 
papa  was  so  rich!  " 

"He  did  not  look  at  all  as  if  he  were  joking,"  said 
Arthur.     "What  is  to  he  done?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Kate,  after  thinking  a  long 
time.  "Arthur,  you  must  go  and  see  Dr.  Felton. 
He  will  call  upon  Mr.  Henderson  and  find  out  all 
about  it." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing ;  I  will  go  this  minute.  But 
don't  say  a  word  to  mother  until  I  come  back.  There 
may  be  some  mistake." 

In  about  two  hours,  Arthur  came  back.  He  looked 
a  different  being  from  the  Arthur  of  the  morning. 
The  boy  had  become  a  man.  His  sisters  regarded  him 
with  surprise,  and  ran  to  him  tenderly. 

"Dear  brother,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  What  has  happened  ?  Tell  us,  dear  Arthur. — Tell 
us  the  worst." 

"  It  is  true,  my  dear  sisters — true.  We  are  entirely 
ruined.  Every  thing  will  be  taken  from  us.  Our  poor 
mother ! — What  is  to  become  of  her  ?  " 

"Oh,  we  will  work  for  her — we  will  never  leave 
her!"  exclaimed  the  girls,  embracing  one  another. 

"  And  me,"  said  Arthur,  "  admit  me  also  to  this  sa- 
cred circle.  And  let  us  take  upon  ourselves  a  solemn 
obligation,  that,  happen  what  will,  we  will  never  sepa- 
rate— never  leave  our  poor  mother !  " 

"Never!  never! " 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  59 

"But,"  said  Helen,  after  a  pause,  blushing  and 
smiling  as  she  spoke,  "I  will  write  to  Edward" — 

"Build  no  hopes  on  your  lovers,  girls,"  said  Arthur, 
sadly;  "they  will  but  follow  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Dr.  Felton  has  given  me  some  harsh  but  much-needed 
information  as  to  our  changed  position.  Hereafter, 
we  must  rely  on  ourselves  alone." 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  of  Edward  Ingraham,"  exclaimed 
Helen,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  animation,  "Wealth 
or  poverty  will  make  no  difference  with  him." 

The  bell  at  this  moment  rang,  and  a  note  for  Helen 
was  delivered  by  the  penny  post-man.  Helen  opened 
it  eagerly,  and  read : — 

"  My  dear  Miss  Wilmar— It  is  with  the  liveliest  con- 
cern that  I  have  just  heard  from  my  husband,  the  pe- 
cuniary misfortunes  that  have  overtaken  your  family. 
We  sincerely  regret  an  occurrence  which,  among  other 
disagreeable  consequences,  will  prevent  the  nearer  re- 
lationship which  in  other  circumstances  had  been  con- 
templated between  our  families.  My  son  Edward  unites 
with  me  in  sending  condolences. 

"Your  obedient 

"Mary  E.  Ingraham." 

Poor  Helen  !  Sinking  into  a  chair,  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  wept  in  silence. 

"It  is  what  I  expected,  my  dear  sister,"  at  length 
said  Arthur,  going  up  to  his  sister,  kneeling  down  be- 
side her,  and  putting  his  arms  round  her  neck.     "But, 


60  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

cheer  up !  Such  piomptntss  to  cast  you  off,  now  that 
you  are  no  longer  rich,  shows  too  clearly  that  he  was 
unworthy  your  love.  Henceforth,  we  must  be  all  in 
all  to  one  another — oui*  own  world.  We  have  no  one 
to  depend  on  but  ourselves.  You  will  see,  sisters,"  he 
continued,  rising,  and  speaking  in  a  cheerful  voice, 
''that  your  brother  is  no  longer  a  boy,  but  a  man,  de- 
voted to  you  and  oui*  dear  mother,  and  ready  to  em- 
ploy every  energy  to  sustain  and  support  you.  Dr. 
Felton  says,  that  with  my  musical  acquirements,  I  need 
not  lack  for  profitable  employment — and  surely  the  ca- 
reer of  an  artist  is  an  honourable  and  lofty  one.  It 
is,  as  you  well  know,  that  which  I  would  have  selected 
in  preference  to  any  other.  And  now  that  I  have 
such  additional  stimulus  to  exertion,  you  shall  see  what 
progress  I  will  make." 

EQs  confident  tone  seemed  to  inspire  his  sisters  with 
his  own  spirit. 

"I  can  certainly  do  something  with  my  needle," 
said  Emma;  "I  have  been  greatly  complimented  on 
my  embroidery — and,  though  I  may  not  be  able  to 
earn  much,  the  trifle  will  help." 

"And  I,"  said  Kate,  "I  will  teach  languages,  or 
keep  a  shop,  or  do  something.     I  will  not  be  idle." 

"For  me,"  said  Helen,  drying  her  eyes,  "I  do  not 
know  what  I  can  do.  But  I  can  at  least  help  in  taking 
care  of  mamma,  and  look  after  the  household  affairs. 
You  know  papa  always  praised  my  housekeeping." 

"Dear  girls,"  exclaimed  Arthur,  embracing  them 
in  turn,  "with  such  a  spirit,  we  cannot  fail.     God  will 


OUR  Flit  ST  FAMILIES.  61 

not  desert  us,  while  we  thus  do  our  duty.  We  shall 
yet  be  happy.  But  I  forbid  any  scheme  for  either  of 
you  that  w^ill  separate  us.  Let  us  at  least  remain  to- 
gether, and  then  we  may  defy  poverty,  or  at  any  rate, 
meet  it  with  courage  and  hope.  Go  to  my  mother, 
Emma — she  has  been  left  alone  too  long  already.  Do 
not  tell  her  any  thing — it  would  only  distress  her  use- 
lessly. I  shall  go  to  Dr.  Felton,  who  has  kindly  pro- 
mised to  advise  with  me  as  to  our  plans.  Good  bye  I 
and  keep  up  a  heart !  " 

Arthur  went  out,  and  the  sisters  went  to  their  mo- 
ther's room,  as  usual.  Emma  to  read  to  her,  Kate  to 
put  the  room  in  order,  while  poor  Ellen,  her  eyes  still 
red  with  weeping,  and  her  heart  sobbing  with  its  great 
sorrow,  stole  to  a  piano — which  had  been  brought  to 
Mrs.  Wilmar's  room,  that  she  might  listen  to  music,  of 
which  she  was  so  fond — and  at  first  unconsciously 
running  over  the  keys,  the  young  girl  gradually  found 
expression  for  her  grief,  in  the  pure  and  sublime  lan- 
guage of  art — the  only  friend  that  never  deceives,  the 
only  confidant  that  never  betrays,  the  only  consoler 
that  never  fails — for  art,  to  the  refined  nature,  is  the 
symbol  of  eternal  truth,  eternal  harmony,  and  infinite 
goodness. 

By  the  advice  of  Dr.  Felton,  Arthur  went  the  next 
day  to  see  Mr.  Spearbill,  who  had  been  his  father's 
lawyer,  and  was  acquainted  with  the  circumstances  of 
the  will  and  executorship  of  Mr.  Henderson.  At  first 
Mr.  Spearbill  made  a  great  many  wise  and  mysterious 
observations,  tending  to  assure  his  young  client  that 
6 


62  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

he  might  depnd  upon  him  for  sifting  the  matter  to  the 
bottom,  and  that,  if  there  had  been  any  foul  play,  he 
should  be  sure  to  ferret  it  out. 

^'But  do  you  suspect  any  thing  wrong,  then?"  in- 
quired Arthur. 

"My  dear  young  friend,"  replied  Mr.  Spearbill,  in 
pompous  and  measured  tones,  ''it  would  be  going  a 
great  deal  too  far,  in  the  present  incipient  stage  of  the 
affair,  to  say  that  we  suspect  any  thing  wrong.  Mr. 
Ira  Henderson  is  a  respectable  man — a  very  respecta- 
ble man — the  head  of  one  of  the  best  houses  in  the  city 
— stands  high,  too,  in  society — one  of  the  first  families 
— a  man  of  great  influence  and  unimpeached  character. 
Mind,  I  do  not  say  there  is  any  thing  wrong — I  do 
not  even  say  that  I  suspect  any  thing  wrong.  Bank 
broke,  you  say — all  your  property  confided  to  it — all 
gone — Mr.  Henderson,  too,  a  great  loser!  It  is,  to 
be  sure,  a  remarkable  circumstance,  in  so  shrewd  a 
man  as  Mr.  Henderson.  It  ought  to  be  inquired  into. 
You  may  depend  on  me,  Mr.  Wilmar.  I  should  look 
carefully  after  the  interests  of  my  late  worthy  and  ex- 
cellent friend's  family.  You  may  depend  upon  me, 
implicitly.  I  shall  wait  upon  Mr.  Henderson  this 
very  day." 

Artliur  went  away;  and  Mr.  Spearbill,  taking  his 
hat  and  gold-headed  cane,  smoothed  his  white  waist- 
coat over  his  capacious  stomach,  buttoned  the  top  but- 
ton of  his  blue  coat,  so  as  to  expose  a  goodly  portion 
of  his  waistcoat — and  took  his  way  to  the  counting- 
house  of  the  great  merchant. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  63 

On  inquiring  for  Mr.  Henderson,  he  was  shown  into 
a  private  office,  at  the  back  of  the  store,  where  the 
great  merchant  sat  alone  at  his  cash  and  sales  books, 
and  by  the  help  of  the  bank  book,  calculating  the  pro- 
fits of  the  week. 

"How  does  thee  do,  friend  Spearbill,"  said  the 
quaker,  scarcely  looking  up.  ''  Thee  may  take  a  seat 
for  a  few  minutes,  if  thee  will.  I  have  a  calculation 
here  that  somewhat  troubles  me.  It  is  meet  that  I 
should  make  it  right,  while  the  transactions  of  the  day 
are  fresh  in  my  memory.  Exactitude,  thee  knows,  is 
as  necessary  in  business  as  punctuality." 

"No  one  knows  that  so  well  as  a  lawyer,"  replied 
Mr.  Spearbill,  sententiously.  "  I  have  often  known 
the  weightiest  cases,  involving  entire  estates,  to  turn 
upon  a  single  word." 

"Mh!"  slowly  ejaculated  Mr.  Henderson,  as  he 
went  on  with  his  occupation. 

In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour — as  soon  as  he  thought 
his  visiter  had  got  thoroughly  impatient  and  out  of  hu- 
mour,— he  laid  down  his  bank  book,  and  wheeled  round 
on  his  patent  revolving  chair,  until  he  sat  face  to  face 
with  his  visiter. 

Neither  spoke  for  some  time — each  seemed  to  be 
reading  the  countenance  and  character  of  the  other. 

The  lawyer  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"So,"  said  he,  "the  'monster'  has  succumbed  at 
last !  A  terrible  crash, — a  terrible  crash  !  But  not 
unexpected.  Every  body  has  known  for  some  time 
that  it  must  come,  sooner  or  later.      You  financial 


(j4  UL  K  FlKSl   FAMILIES. 

men — at  least  shrewd  and  experienced  ones  like  your- 
self— took  good  care  to  sell  out  your  stock,  and  with- 
draw your  deposits,  before  the  crash  took  place  ?  Ter- 
rible crash !  terrible  crash ! ' '  repeated  Mr.  Spearbill, 
as  if  to  himself,  while  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  care- 
fully brushing  away  the  pungent  particles  that  had 
lodged  on  his  stainless  white  waistcoat. 

"  Thee  is  greatly  deceived,  friend  Spearbill,"  replied 
the  merchant,  looking  steadily  at  his  visiter,  and  speak- 
ing very  slowly;  "I  am  a  heavy  loser  by  the  bank,  in 
which  I  had  invested  not  only  a  large  amount  of  my 
own  funds,  but  the  whole  fortune  of  Mr.  Wilmar,  who 
made  me  his  executor,  as  you  are  aware.  It  is  all 
gone — all! " 

"Bless  us,  Mr.  Henderson — you  don't  tell  me  so! 
That  is  a  heavy  blow,  indeed!  All  the  wealth  of  my 
dear  friend  and  client,  AYilmar,  w^ho  died  in  the  happy 
conviction  that  he  liad  left  his  family  rich,  and  beyond 
the  reach  of  ill  fortune.    Did  you  say  it  was  all  gone  ?  " 

"  Every  dollar.  Even  the  house  will  have  to  be  sold, 
to  make  up  for  the  sums  which  I  advanced,  from  time 
to  time,  to  keep  good  the  ^  margin '  of  the  stock : — for, 
like  the  whole  world  of  business  men,  I  could  not  think 
that  the  bank  would  be  finally  suffered  to  go  down." 

"But  was  not  that  rather  imprudent,  my  dear  Mr. 
Henderson?" 

"  Perhaps  it  was,  friend ;  but  I  did  not  think  so.  I 
ventured  my  own  money,  as  well  as  the  trust  confided 
to  me.  I  did  what  I  thought  was  right,  before  men, 
and  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord — mh !  " 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  65 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  Mr.  Henderson — I 
did  not  presume  to  doubt  it.  But  my  friendship  for 
my  late  respected  client,  Mr.  Wilmar — the  profes- 
sional relations  in  which  I  still  partly  stand  to^Yards 
the  family — you  understand — makes  me  naturally  anx- 
ious— very  anxious,  my  dear  sir — very  anxious." 

"I  have  just  finished  making  out  a  complete  state- 
ment of  the  afi'airs  of  Mr.  Wilmar's  family,  and  of  my 
trust  as  executor  under  the  will.  I  meant  to  leave  it 
with  thee  for  thy  examination  to-morrow.  But  as  thee 
is  here  now,  thee  may  as  well  take  it.  And  as  this  is 
a  labour  done  entirely  for  me,  it  is  no  more  than  just, 
that  I  should  pay  thy  fee.  Thee  will  find  all  the  papers 
in  this  package — and  here  is  a  check  for  thy  own  trou- 
ble, friend  Spearbill.  Mh  !  "  and  the  merchant,  hand- 
ed over  a  large  package  of  papers,  and  a  check  for  a 
thousand  dollars." 

Spearbill  took  the  papers,  glanced  carelessly  at  the 
check,  which  he  folded  and  put  in  his  waistcoat  pock- 
et ;  then  getting  up,  he  took  his  gold-headed  stick,  put 
on  his  hat,  and  went  away. 

As  the  door  of  Mr.  Henderson's  private  office  closed 
upon  him,  the  great  merchant  rubbed  his  parchment 
hands  slowly  together,  and  said  to  himself  with  a  grim 
smile, — 

''  These  world's  people  hold  themselves  cheap — very 
cheap.  Ira  Henderson  could  now  buy  them  by  the 
score.  Oh,  Mammon,  Mammon !  How  do  the  idola- 
ters and  the  unrighteous  fall  down  and  worship  thee  !  " 

After  this  pious  reflection,  the  honest  q  uaker  turned 
6* 


0(>  OUK  FIKST  FAMILIES. 

round  again  on  liis  revolving  chair,  and  fell  solemnly 
to  the  examination  of  his  books. 

"A  regular  old  scoundrel!"  said  Mr.  Spearbill  to 
himself,  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  first  sales-room, 
and  stepped  into  the  street.  ''lam  convinced  that 
the  broad-brimmed  old  rascal  has  muttoned  the  whole 
of  Wilmar's  fortune.  Lost  it  by  the  bank,  indeed ! 
Don't  believe  a  word  of  it !  Catch  old  birds  with 
chaff!  But  it  will  take  a  good  deal  of  such  chalf  as 
this,"  he  continued,  pulling  out  his  check,  "to  catch, 
or  hoodwink  so  old  a  bird  as  Nicholas  Spearbill !  We 
shall  see !  We  shall  see !  Old  Wilmar  can't  have  left 
much  short  of  a  million.  If  things  are  as  I  suspect, 
I'll  go  halves  with  old  Broadbrim,  or  I'll  peach,  and 
let  him  down  so  roughly  that  he  will  never  get  up 
again! " 

We  need  not  trace  this  "fair  business  transaction" 
between  the  great  merchant  and  the  eminent  lawyer, 
to  its  conclusion.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that  they  came 
finally  to  a  perfect  understanding;  that  Spearbill, 
having  required  something  for  the  careful  investi- 
gation of  the  affair,  announced  to  the  expectant  Ar- 
thur that  it  was  "all  correct;"  that  Mr.  Henderson 
could  not  have  foreseen  the  catastrophe  that  occurred ; 
that  the  whole  commercial  community  had  been  as 
much  astonished  at  it  as  himself;  and  that  Mr.  Hen- 
derson had,  in  fine,  acted  in  all  things  according  to 
what  he  had  believed  for  the  best.  Mr.  Spearbill 
added,  that  although  Mr.  Henderson's  own  losses  and 
advances  had  been  very  large,  yet  he  had  induced  liim 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  67 

to  postpone  the  sale  of  the  house  and  furniture  for 
three  months,  to  enable  the  Wilmars  to  look  about 
them  a  little,  and  see  -what  was  to  be  done. 

Arthur  went  home  with  a  heavy  heart.  Although 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  for  the  worst,  and  had  im- 
pressed upon  his  sisters  the  necessity  of  expecting 
nothing  favourable  from  the  investigation  of  Mr. 
Spearbill,  still  a  shadow  of  hope  had  remained,  despite 
himself.  Now,  all  was  over.  Even  were  he  himself 
ever  so  well  convinced  that  he  and  his  family  had  been 
wrongly  dealt  by,  yet  he  would  have  seen  no  way  of 
bringing  the  wrong-doers  to  justice.  Behind  the  pro- 
tection of  two  such  respectable  and  worthy  men  as  Ira 
Henderson  the  good  quaker  merchant,  and  Nicholas 
Spearbill  the  eminent  lawyer,  what  could  he,  a  poor 
friendless  boy,  hope  to  effect?  And  besides,  he  was 
but  seventeen — and  at  that  age  it  is  easier  to  believe 
in  the  malevolence  of  fortune,  than  the  hypocrisy  of 
men. 

So,  the  once  wealthy  and  brilliant  Wilmars,  whose 
smiles  were  courted  by  the  most  powerful,  and  whose 
favour  was  a  passport  to  the  most  exclusive  circles  of 
society,  disappeared  from  the  public  eye,  like  the  ac- 
tors and  pageantry  of  the  stage  when  the  curtain  de- 
scends, and  the  lights  are  extinguished.  Their  bril- 
liant equipage  laid  aside,  their  proud  bearing  and 
commanding  positions  put  off,  they  mingled  in  the 
great  stream  of  humble  humanity,  that  surges  and 
struggles  within  its  obscure  banks,  until  it  falls  into 
the  sea  of  eternity. 


QS  OrR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

In  this  dark  and  dismal  season,  Dr.  Felton  proved 
a  true  and  constant  friend.  Although  he  was  unable 
to  afford  them  help  in  money — which  they  would  have 
declined,  had  it  been  offered — his  advice  and  friendly 
sucrsrestions  were  of  incalculable  benefit. 

Arthur's  character  continued  to  develope  and  ma- 
ture wonderfully,  in  the  new  and  trying  situation  in 
which  he  was  placed.  He  attended  to  every  thing — 
provided  for  every  thing — and  in  the  intervals  of  ar- 
ranging a  new  and  humble  home,  and  getting  his  mo- 
ther and  sisters  comfortably  established  as  circum- 
stances would  admit,  he  still  found  leisure  for  three 
or  fom-  hours'  steady  practice  at  the  piano,  at  which 
he  made  incredible  progress.  The  considerate  kind- 
ness of  Dr.  Felton,  who  knew  and  highly  approved 
his  plan  of  becoming  an  artist,  had  introduced  him  to 
the  best  maestro  in  the  city — who  was  so  astonished 
and  delighted  with  the  progress  of  his  young  pupil, 
that  he  prophesied  for  him  a  brilliant  career. 

Meanwhile  he  turned  his  attention  seriously  to 
teaching ;  and,  by  the  most  untiring  industry,  he  ob- 
tained in  this  w^ay  the  principal  support  of  the  family 
— retiring  at  night,  when  he  returned  home  wearied 
and  nervous  from  his  daily  and  irksome  duties,  to  the 
solitude  of  his  little  chamber,  where  he  practised  and 
wrote  till  late  into  the  night. 

Yet  liis  life  was  not  an  unhappy  one — perhaps  less 
so  than  had  he  been  left  to  the  ennui  and  tempta- 
tions of  idleness  and  wealth.  He  felt  that  he  had  at 
least  an  enthusiastic  devotion  to  his  art — perhaps  ge- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  69 

nius :  and  he  toiled  and  laboured  cheerfully  on,  wait- 
ing unconsciously  for  the  hour  and  the  occasion  that 
was  to  touch  his  nature  with  the  divine  fire  of  love, 
and  thus  light  up  in  his  soul  the  bright  and  inextin- 
guishable flame  of  genius. 

Three  years  had  passed  in  this  way,  during  which 
no  change  had  occurred  in  the  affairs  of  the  Wilmars 
— except  that  Arthur  began  already  to  make  his  way 
as  an  artist.  He  had  played  several  times  at  public 
concerts  with  success ;  and  a  number  of  short,  light 
pieces  which  he  had  ventured  to  offer  to  a  publisher, 
who  kindly  undertook  to  publish  them  them  for  no- 
thing^ had  been  received  with  great  favour.  He  was 
much  sought  as  a  teacher,  and  had  been  enabled  to  in- 
crease his  terms  to  the  aristocratic  rate — so  that  his 
income  was  considerably  expanded,  and  he  was  ena- 
bled to  gradually  add  to  the  comforts  of  his  mother 
and  sisters,  some  faint  attempts  at  even  the  luxuries 
and  embellishments  of  life.  But  the  struggle  was  still 
a  hard  one — and  he  inwardly  groaned  as  he  saw  the 
days  and  months  go  by,  without  enabling  him  to  Avith- 
draw  from  the  irksome  labour  of  teaching,  and  devote 
himself  wholly  to  the  pure  study  of  his  art  and  of  the 
higher  walks  of  composition. 

It  was  at  this  time,  that  Arthur  Wilmar  first  saw 
Madame  de  Saintlieu,  at  the  reception  of  his  great 
friend  and  patron,  Mrs.  Valentine. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  GAY  QUAKERESS  AND  HER  MUSIC  MASTER. 

It  was  an  act  of  extreme  kindness  and  delicacy,  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Henderson,  and  much  lauded  and  won- 
dered at  by  the  members  of  the  exclusive  circle,  of 
which  he,  (or  rather  his  wife,)  was  the  acknowledged  head 
. — that  they  had  dismissed  Signer  Polvenno,  the  maes- 
tro of  their  only  daughter,  Sarah,  and  had  committed 
her  musical  education  to  Arthur  Wilmar,  who,  though 
a  very  clever  young  man,  could  not,  of  course,  com- 
pare with  the  Signore,  who  had  learned  his  divine  art 
beneath  the  sunny  skies  of  Italy,  and  who  sang  so  con 
espressione,  and  whose  hair  and  moustaches  were  so 
elegantly  black,  so  exquisitely  curled,  so  celestially 
scented!  (The  Signore  had  carefully  concealed  from 
his  adorers  among  the  barbarians  of  the  new  world, 
that  he  was  originally  a  runaway  tailor's  boy  in  Naples, 
and  had  joined  the  supernumeraries  at  the  San  Carlos, 
where  he  got  three  cents  a  night  for  singing  in  the 
chanisses.) 

The  day  after  young  Wilmar  had  met  Madame  de 
Saintlieu,  Sarah  Henderson  was  in  her  mother's  draw- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  71 

ing-room,  expecting  her  music  master,  and  impatiently 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  Lablache's  vocal  exercises, 
— though  it  was  evident  she  was  not  looking  for  any 
particular  lesson,  as  her  slender  white  fingers  dashed 
through  the  book,  from  beginning  to  end,  and  from 
end  to  beginning  with  feverish  and  reckless  haste,  as 
if  she  were  striving  by  the  occupation,  to  check  or  dis- 
tract some  troublesome  thought.  Now  she  stopped  all 
at  once,  and  running  to  a  little  table,  on  which  stood 
a  bronze  time-piece,  she  compared  the  position  of  the 
long,  black,  skeleton  fingers,  pointing  over  the  golden 
face,  to  those  of  a  tiny  watch  which  she  drew  from 
her  bosom. 

^^  Eleven  o'clock  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  girlish  petu- 
lance, "and  he  always  comes  at  half-past  ten,  I'm 
tempted  to  go  up  stairs,  and  not  take  my  lesson  at  all. 
But  perhaps  he  is  ill," — she  continued.  "I  am  sure 
something  must  have  happened — he  is  always  so  punc- 
tual!" 

Philadelphia,  celebrated  as  it  is  for  its  beautiful 
girls,  had  few  so  beautiful  as  Sarah  Henderson.  Her 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  leading  family  of  "  gay 
Quakers" — a  schism  from  the  sect  of  Quakers,  still 
holding  the  same  fundamental  doctrines,  but  foregoing 
many  of  the  puritanic  self-denials  and  ostentatious  hu- 
milities of  their  stricter  and  more  sanctimonious  breth- 
ren. Although  the  schism  is  a  very  decided'  one,  the 
gay  Quakers  indulging  in  the  heinous  crimes  of  wear- 
ing bonnets  somewhat  like  other  people's — giving  par- 
ties, dancing,  and  enjoying  music  and  the  fine  arts, 


72  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

and  above  all,  speaking  a  grammatical  language — still 
the  difference  between  them  cannot  be  said  to  be  actu- 
ally a  rupture.  The  families  of  the  two  schools  of 
Quakerism  hold  such  social  and  personal  intercourse 
with  each  other,  as  the  rigid  regulations  of  the  stricter 
sect  admit  of — a  general  co-operation  in  matters  of 
trade  and  business  is  kept  up  by  the  men — and  mar- 
riages, though  on  the  whole  discouraged,  are  not  un- 
frequent,  between  members  of  the  two  branches  of 
the  chosen  people. 

Sarah's  mother  had  been  the  great  belle  of  the  gay 
Quakers,  in  her  youth;  and  old  Ira  Henderson,  im- 
pressed with  her  beauty — or  rather,  enchanted  with 
the  large  fortune  which  she  would  inherit  from  her  fa- 
ther, whose  oldest  child  she  was — had  unbent  from  the 
severity  of  his  sectarian  discipline,  and  proposed  the 
match  between  her  and  his  son.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  the  Hendersons  had  sought  an  alliance  among 
the  "gay"  portion  of  the  brotherhood;  and  Sarah's 
father  was  consequently  flattered  by  the  distinction ;  and 
as  the  daughters  themselves  are  permitted  no  voice  in 
their  conjugal  relations  until  after  marriage,  the  match 
was  finally  concluded.  Some  of  the  strictest  among 
his  brethren  and  sisters,  commented  with  severity  and 
wonderment  upon  this  social  dereliction ;  but  the  Hen- 
dersons were  people  not  to  be  offended,  and  famous 
for  always  having  their  own  way.  Besides,  gossiping 
is  not  a  Quaker  vice ;  and  as  the  match  was  in  every 
other  respect  entirely  eligible,  it  was  shortly  and  ge- 
nerally acquiesced  in,  by  the  friends  of  both  parties. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  73 

The  young  couple  had  got  along  extremely  well.  The 
husband  retained  all  the  primitiveness  of  his  speech 
and  habits,  and  occasionally  frowned  or  sighed — for 
Mrs.  Henderson  was  a  woman  of  spirit,  and  not  to  be 
chidden  or  lightly  crossed,  as  her  husband  soon  dis- 
covered— at  the  extravagance  and  style  of  the  house- 
hold establishment,  the  expensive  parties  and  enter- 
tainments given  by  his  wife,  and  the  vain  and  frivolous 
manner  in  which  their  daughter  was  brought  up  and 
educated.  Several  severe  domestic  contests  on  these 
points,  however,  in  which  he  was  invariably  beaten 
out  of  the  field,  by  his  clever  and  determined  wife, 
showed  him  the  folly  of  opposition;  and  he  finally 
yielded  up  the  management  of  the  household  to  her, 
and  withdrew  entirely  into  his  own  peculiar  domain  of 
the  counting-house.  Here,  he  was  the  tyrant,  which 
at  home  he  could  not  be ;  and  the  face  and  bearing  of 
the  great  Quaker  merchant  were  a  regular  thermome- 
ter, as  he  gradually  subsided  from  the  stately  and  in- 
flexible freezing  point  of  the  store,  down  to  the  zero 
of  his  true  position  at  his  grand  house  in  Schuylkill 
Eleventh  street. 

Sarah,  their  only  daughter,  inherited  the  beauty,  the 
spirit,  and  the  taste  of  her  mother.  She  was  intrinsi- 
cally, and  at  heart,  as  well  as  by  education,  a  "gay 
Quaker" — and  her  eager  and  active  organization,  her 
superb  health,  and  warm  imagination,  would  have  in- 
cited her  to  overstep  even  the  ''gayest "  bounds  of  her 
sect,  and  leap,  like  a  frisky  colt,  into  the  flowery  pas- 
tures of  the  "world's  people."  But  her  mother  kept 
7 


74  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

a  strong  hand  and  a  watchful  eye  over  her,  and  she 
was  early  taught  the  uselessness  of  attempting  to  revolt 
against  the  inflexible  will,  and  the  sagacious  watchful- 
ness of  a  mother,  who,  if  she  did  not  love  her  daughter, 
at  least  was  proud  of  her,  and  had  marked  out  for  her 
a  destiny  as  brilliant  and  immaculate  as  her  own. 

And  Sarah  Henderson  was  a  girl  of  whom  all  bril- 
liant and  beautiful  things  might  be  predicted.  Sensi- 
tive and  fond  of  pleasure,  yet  she  had  intellect  and 
enthusiasm  enough  to  make  her  an  ardent  sludent  of 
literatui'e  and  art,  those  purifiers  of  the  passions,  those 
antidotes  of  low  tastes  and  degrading  vices.  She  was 
no  dreamer,  for  she  had  never  had  any  serious  disap- 
pointments, and  life  had  been  to  her  a  reality,  as  bril- 
liant as  her  own  dreams  would  have  pictured  it.  Pros- 
perity had  made  her  exacting,  capricious,  and  vehe- 
ment ;  and  should  the  hour  ever  come — as  come  it  may 
and  will,  to  queenly  beauty  in  silken  bower,  as  well  as 
to  lowly  maiden  in  gown  of  green — the  disappointed 
passion  shall  sweep  through  that  strong  and  powerful 
heart,  the  storm  would  be  a  fearful  and  devastating 
one.  ^' 

But  at  sixteen,  a  girl  thinks  not  of  disappointment, 
nor  even  of  passion — though  the  seeds  may  have  al- 
ready been  sown  in  her  teeming  heart.  If  she  have 
vexations,  they  are  only  such  as  affect  her  vanity,  or 
her  momentary  caprices.  They  do  not  enter  into  and 
form  a  part  of  life  itself. 

Had  Sarah  Henderson,  however,  been  a  student  of 
metaphysics,  and  could  she  truthfully  have  examined 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  75 

her  own  sensations,  as  she  stood  by  the  little  French 
time-piece,  comparing  its  markings  with  those  of  her 
dainty  little  watch,  she  would  have  been  somewhat 
startled.  She  might  have  even  suspected  that  it  was 
a  strange  symptom,  to  be  so  very  much  put  out  by  the 
delay  of  her  music  master !  What  if  she  should  miss 
her  music  lesson  for  a  single  day  ? — it  would  be  no 
great  matter.  Or,  if  she  was  so  earnestly  bent  in 
making  progress  in  her  singing,  could  she  not  very 
profitably  turn  back  and  go  over  those  last  two  lessons 
again  ?  They  were  very  difficult ;  and  even  her  voice, 
beautiful  and  flexible  as  it  was,  and  her  ear,  quick  and 
sensitive  as  electricity,  to  the  least  disturbance  of  har- 
monic combination,  had  not  been  able  to  master  some 
of  those  strange  intervals.  In  fact,  she  ought  to  study 
those  two  lessons  again, — Mr.  Wilmar  had  gently  in- 
sinuated as  much,  a  few  days  before.  But  when  she 
suddenly  turned  upon  him  with  those  flashing  eyes, 
overarched  by  two  little  imperious  frowns,  and  demand- 
ed of  him  whether  he  really  thought  her  so  stupid  as 
to  require  any  more  study  at  that — he  blushed,  and 
stammered,  and  fumbled  at  the  musi\3-book — put  his 
gloves  on  his  head,  and  stuck  his  arm  into  his  hat  up 
to  the  elbow.  And  then  Sarah  had  laughed,  with  a 
bright,  merry,  ringing  laugh;  and  he  had  blushed 
and  fidgeted  still  more — and  at  length,  watching  his 
opportunity,  as  also  his  hat  and  gloves,  had  fairly 
rushed  out  of  the  house. 

She  vividly  recalled  this  scene,  as  she  still  stood, 
watch  in  hand,  her  eyes  fixed  abstractedly   on   the 


70  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

honest  and  uncompromising  face  of  the  time-piece — 
and  a  smile  stole  out  from  her  lips,  and  spread  gradu- 
ally ever  her  beautiful  cheeks — like  morning  lighting 
up  the  rosy  clouds — till  it  melted  in  the  flashing  sun- 
light of  her  eyes. 

At  this  moment  the  bell  rang. 
"  Oh,  there  he  is,  at  last ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low 
voice,  while  a  sigh  of  relief  escaped  her  bosom ;  and, 
with  that  infinite  and  indescribable  hypocrisy,  know* 
only  to  young  girls,  and  some  strains  of  Bellini' b 
music,  she  walked  back  statelily  to  the  piano,  and 
seating  herself  grandly,  began  practising  her  imperfect 
lesson,  with  as  much  sang  froid  as  if  she  never  ex- 
pected to  see  a  music  master  in  the  world.  She  lis- 
tened between  the  notes,  for  the  sound  of  his  step  in 
the  hall — but  she  would  not  have  turned  for  her  life. 
How  long  he  was  in  coming  in ! 

"  So,  cousin  Sarah,  you  are  at  your  lesson  all  alone 
to-day!    I  did  not  know  you  were  so  industrious." 

She  tui'ned  round  in  consternation,  and  saw  Miss 
Jemima  Jenkins ! 

Without  deigning  to  bestow  a  syllable  upon  her  an- 
tiquated cousin,  whom  she  always  hated,  she  was  hur- 
rying out  of  the  room,  when  Jemima  chattered  on — 
"Oh  no, — no  Mr.  Wilmar  for  you  to-day;  he  is 
much  more  grandly  employed.  They  are  going  to 
have  a  matinee  musicals  at  Mrs.  Valentine's,  and  Mr. 
Wilmar  is  to  play  the  piano.  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu  is  to  make  her  first  appearance.  I  have  just  come 
from  Mrs.  Valentine's,  where  they  are  writing  the  in- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  77 

vitations.  It  is  going  to  be  the  grand  aifair,  and  I 
hurried  off  to  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  especially  to 
ask  your  advice." 

"Who  is  Madame  de  Saintlieu? — and  why  cannot 
Arth — Mr.  Wilmar — give  me  my  lesson,  because  he 
is  going  to  play  at  Mrs.  Valentine's,  matintel  I  sup- 
pose it  doesn't  take  place  to-day." 

"  Oh  bless  you,  no  !  next  Wednesday,  at  three  o'clock 
precisely.  But  Mr.  Wilmar  has  gone  by  appointment 
to  Mrs.  Loftus,  to  rehearse  with  Madame  de  Saintlieu. 
He  met  her  at  Mrs.  Valentine's  yesterday,  and  she 
complimented  him  very  much  on  his  playing.  He  is 
regularly  infatuated  with  her.  Mrs.  Glacee  told  me  all 
about  it.  Now  I  want  your  advice — do  I  look  best 
in  pink  or  blue  ?  We  are  to  wear  morning  costume,  and 
I  am  going  to  the  store  to  select  my  dress.  Some- 
times I  think  that,  by  daylight,  blue  becomes  my — " 

But  her  auditor  was  gone.  Rushing  up  stairs,  hold- 
ing her  hands  tightly  to  her  heart,  she  threw  herself 
on  her  bed,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Poor  little  gay  Quakeress!  The  first  storm  is 
rising  afar  in  your  brilliant  horizon ! 

The  incorrigible  old  maid,  having  done  all  the  mis- 
chief, and  inflicted  all  the  pain,  which  it  is  the  "  mani- 
fest destiny"  of  that  class  of  beings — the  furies  of  the 
Greeks,  translated  into  wigs  and  petticoats — to  do  and 
inflict — looked  about  with  the  most  innocent  surprise 
at  what  she  had  done,  and  went  trotting  up  stairs  to 
find  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Henderson,  to  repeat  her  won- 
derful budget  of  news  from  the  Valentines,  and  to  dis- 

7* 


78  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

CUSS  the  important  point,  with   her  relative,  whether 
she  shoiikl  go  to  the  concert  in  blue  or  pink. 

Mrs.  Henderson  had  but  one  serious,  inflexible,  un- 
qualified hatred  in  the  world — and  that  was  Mrs.  Va- 
lentine. She  had  a  quiet  sort  of  detestation,  indeed, 
for  her  vain,  tattling,  conceited  cousin,  Jemima,  who 
was  the  female  mercury  of  the  town,  and  spent  her 
whole  life  in  gadding  from  one  house  to  the  other,  tell- 
ing every  body  exactly  the  thing  which  they  most  dis- 
liked to  hear.  Practice  had  made  her  perfect  in  this 
delightful  employment.  She  was  a  moral  probe,  and 
could  hit  the  sore  spot  in  the  dark,  without  ever  miss- 
ing. She  was  regarded  as  a  general  nuisance,  by  all 
circles — by  Quakers,  both  grave  and  gay,  (to  the  lat- 
ter sect  of  which  she  belonged,)  as  well  as  by  the  world's 
people.  But  she  was  not  to  be  got  rid  of,  as  her  po- 
sition and  character  were  unimpeachable,  and  her  for- 
tune was  very  considerable,  and  held  entirely  in  her 
own  right.  Had  she  left  off  her  sentiment  and  orange 
wreaths,  and  taken  honestly  and  openly  to  snuff  and 
porter,  there  doubtless  might  still  have  been  found 
some  desperate  young  man,  so  desperate,  both  in  purse 
and  purpose,  as  to  have  married  her  for  the  sake  of 
her  fortune — and  a  hard  bargain  the  poor  fellow  would 
have  had !  But  even  the  boldest  and  most  unscrupu- 
lous of  adventurers  shrinks  from  that  mingling  of  in- 
fantile smiles,  and  false  teeth,  wreaths  and  wrinkles, 
pouts  and  prepared  chalk,  which  goes  to  make  up  the 
modern,  (we  beg  pardon,  we  mean  the  ancient,)  old 
maid,  and  reminds  the  beholder  of  a  peripatetic  sam- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  79 

pie  of  Laurel  Hill,  sent  round  as  a  specimen  of  its 
highly  ornamental  and  flowery  tombs. 

Mrs.  Henderson  received  the  news  of  the  doings  at 
Mrs.  Valentine's,  with  the  most  withering  disdain, 
though  in  her  inmost  heart  she  was  chafing  with  spite 
and  envy. 

''Infamous  creature!"  she  exclaimed;  "how  dare 
she  go  on  at  this  rate,  in  the  face  of  such  a  career  as 
hers !  I  declare,  the  police  ought  to  take  her  up  as  a 
vagrant,  and  shut  up  her  house  as  a  disreputable  es- 
tablishment: there  certainly  can't  be  a  worse  one! 
And  you,  cousin !  I  am  astonished  that  you  dare  be 
seen  in  such  company — and  most  especially,  that  you 
can  come  to  me  with  news  of  her  doings.  You  choose 
your  subjects  badly,  cousin.  What  do  I  care  for  your 
Madame  de  Saintlieu?  No  doubt  some  French  Trol- 
lope,  who  has  been  driven  away,  as  too  bad  even  for 
Paris.  She  has  found  a  precious,  and  doubtless  a  con- 
genial patroness ! " 

"Why,  cousin,  you  astonish  me!  I  thought  you 
cared  nothing  about  these  people ;  and  yet  you  are 
positively  angry  because  they  are  going  to  have  a 
matinee  musicale!" 

"No,  I  am  not — I  am  only  angry  because  you  have 
come  to  tell  me  of  it.  I  hate  to  hear  that  woman's 
name — it  makes  an  honest  woman  distrust  honesty, 
when  such  creatures  can  make  a  figure  in  the  world." 

"  I  am  quite  sorry  I  said  a  word  about  it,  my  dear 
cousin — I  thought  you  would  like  to  hear  the  news." 


80  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"When  does  your  matinee  musicale,  as  you  call  it, 
take  place?  " 

"  Next  Wednesday,  at  three  o'clock  precisely — morn- 
ing costumes.  Now,  dear  cousin,  do  he  good-natured 
for  a  moment,  and  tell  me  which  you  think  I  look  the 
best  in,  by  daylight,  red  or  blue  ?  Sometimes  I  think 
one,  and  sometimes  the  other.  Do  tell  me  your 
opinion." 

"Both,  I  should  think." 

"  Really !  Well,  I  never  thought  of  that !  It  is  a 
new  idea — quite  splendid,  in  fact !  Cousin,  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you — I  must  hurry  down  to  the  store. 
Good  bye! " 

After  she  had  gone,  Mrs.  Henderson  sat  for  a  mo- 
ment, in  deep  and  angry  thought;  then,  ringing  her 
bell  with  unusual  violence,  she  ordered  the  carriage, 
and  prepared  to  go  out. 

"And  send  Miss  Henderson  to  me,"  she  said,  as 
the  maid  went  out. 

Sarah  came  in,  having  dried  her  eyes  as  well  as  she 
could — though  they  were  still  red  and  showery. 

"You  look  ill,  my  child — what  is  the  matter?" 

"  Only  a  very  bad  head-ache,  mamma — I  was  lying 
down." 

"  Well,  go  and  put  on  your  things — I  am  going  out ; 
and  a  drive  will  do  you  good." 

"Where  are  you  going,  mamma?" 

"  To  call  on  Mrs.  Attarby." 

"  Mrs.  Attarby !  I  thought  you  hated  her,  because 
she  is  an  actress." 


OUR  rmST  FAMILIES.  81 

"Not  because  she  is  an  actress  on  the  stage,  but 
because  she  continues  to  be  one  after  she  has  left  it. 
But  I  have  special  reasons  for  seeing  her.  You  can 
remain  in  the  carriage — I  shall  onlj  stay  a  moment." 

"I  will  be  ready."  And  as  the  young  girl  went 
out,  she  said  to  herself,  ''Are  we  not  all  actors  ?  I  am 
sure  mamma  is — and  I  know  I  am — though  I  have 
played  my  part  badly.  I  will  get  mamma  to  let  me  go 
in,  and  take  a  lesson  from  her  and  Mrs.  Attarby." 


82  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  YII. 


THE  FIRST  REHEARSAL. 


Madame  de  Saintlieu  had  entirely  forgotten  her 
impromptu  rehearsal,  for  which  she  had  engaged  to  be 
at  home  to  Mr.  Wilmar.  When  he  came,  he  found 
her  playing  with  her  two  little  girls,  in  Mrs.  Loftus' 
drawing-room.  The  oldest  girl  was  about  six — a 
bright,  healthy,  elastic  creature.  She  was  teaching 
her  sister,  a  little  affair  of  three  years  or  so,  and  who 
could  hardly  toddle,  to  dance  the  polka,  while  mamma, 
looking  over  her  shoulder  at  the  funny  little  manoeu- 
vres, with  a  smile  of  ineffable  affection  and  playful- 
ness, was  drumming  away  at  the  piano. 

Wilmar  stopped,  and  stood  in  the  door,  admiring 
the  pretty  and  natural  picture  before  him.  Madame 
de  Saintlieu  did  not  see  him ;  but  the  children  did, 
breaking  up  their  lesson  in  confusion,  and  coming  up 
to  her.  She  then  turned  to  the  door,  and  seeing 
Wilmar,  motioned  him  in  with  a  cordial  welcome. 

"Oh,  I  had  forgotten  you,  Mr.  Wilmar,"  she  said. 
"  How  very  kind  of  you  to  come !  Run  away,  my 
darlings!     That  will  do  for  to-day." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  83 

The  children  went  towards  the  door ;  then  the  oldest 
came  back  to  her  mother,  and  whispered  mysteriously 
in  her  ear. 

"Yes,  certainly.  Mr.  Wilmar  won't  mind,  I  dare 
say.  My  little  girls  want  to  stay  and  hear  mamma 
sing.     May  they  do  so,  Mr.  Wilmar  ?  ' 

"  Madame,  it  will  be  a  happiness  for  me  to  think 
that  my  ill-timed  appearance  does  not  drive  them  away 
from  you.    I  ought  really  to  apologize  for  intruding." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  I  who  ought  to  apologize. 
But  I  have  become  so  accustomed  to  your  American 
inaccuracy  about  appointments,  that  I  really  had  not 
fixed  ours  seriously  in  my  memory.  But,  as  you  are 
here,  if  you  please,  we  will  go  through  the  'pieces  de 
resistance  of  our  entertainment." 

Wilmar,  who  at  first  had  felt  all  his  shyness  and 
awkwardness  returning,  insensibly  lost  consciousness 
of  himself,  and  was  soon  seated  in  front  of  Madame 
de  Saintlieu,  with  an  immense  portfolio  of  music  be- 
tween them  on  a  little  table,  and  conversing  quite  at 
his  ease. 

"I  suppose  of  course  we  must  have  something  very 
high  and  grand  in  the  Italian  way,"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,  of  course,  all  our  young  misses 
sing  scenas  and  cavatinas.  Something  will  certainly 
be  expected  of  you  in  that  style." 

"I  am  sorely  tempted  to  disappoint  them,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  novelty.  I  am  heartily  tired  of  grand 
arias  in  the  drawing-room." 

"But  you  do  not  dislike  the  Italian  school?" 


84  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"  I  might  as  well  dislike  Greek  architecture,  or  Ra- 
faelle's  pictures.  It  is  the  only  school  that  has  com- 
bined the  grace  of  music  and  the  power  of  passion 
into  an  art." 

''Ah!  I  thought  so!  I  felt  it  must  be  so,  notwith- 
standing the  wretched  disappointments  I  have  alone 
listened  to." 

"  It  is  for  this  very  reason,  that  I  hate  to  see  the 
grand  and  sublime  pictures  of  the  Italian  opera 
dragged  out  of  their  frames,  cut  up  into  fragments, 
and  distributed  with  the  tea  and  muffins  around  the 
drawing-room." 

"I  feel  that  you  are  right,  yet  it  would  be  cruel  to 
deprive  us,  who  cannot  have  the  opera  entire,  of  the 
pleasure  and  profit  of  enjoying  even  its  fragments." 

"You  must  have  a  difficult  public  to  please,  more 
exacting  than  critical." 

"  That  is  the  precise  truth,  the  idea  that  I  have  al- 
ways been  trying  in  vain  to  express.  Our  general 
public  know,  literally,  nothing  of  music,  and  care  no- 
thing for  it:  and  when  they  listen  to  a  real  artist, 
they  are  disappointed,  because  they  do  not  derive 
their  money's  worth  of  pleasure." 

"  That  is  the  way  with  an  ignorant  public,  art  suf- 
fers in  their  estimation,  because  it  is  art — because  it 
is  not  something  else — something  that  they  like  and 
can  understand.  It  was  so  for  many,  many  years  in 
London.  Indeed,  Italian  opera  has  never  flourished 
naturally  out  of  Italy.  Even  in  Paris,  it  is  an  exotic 
— more  criticised  than  enjoyed." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  85 

"  You  are  flattering  my  self-conceit  enormously,  by 
uttering  my  very  thoughts.  You  learned  to  sing  in 
Italy." 

"I  studied  there — I  ought  not  to  say  I  learned  to 
sing:  not  every  one  who  studies  does  that." 

"  I  am  dying  to  hear  you — if  you  will  forgive  my 
madness — I  meant — I — really" — 

"  Certainly,  with  all  my  heart.  "What  shall  we 
try  ?  Here  is  the  prayer  from  Favor ita — let  us  try 
that." 

Wilmar's  fingers  trembled,  his  face  flushed,  and  his 
heart  beat.  But  it  w^as  now,  however,  the  artist,  and 
not  the  man,  who  was  excited.  He  felt  that  he  was 
about  to  hear  what  he  had  heretofore  only  dreamed  of 
— the  impassioned  sympathetic  expression  of  dramatic 
sentiment,  through  the  language  of  music;  that  lan- 
guage which,  instead  of  narrowing,  restricting,  and 
breaking  up  the  sentiment  intrusted  to  it,  ennobles  and 
exalts  passion  itself,  and  gives  to  it  a  divine  and  im- 
mortal utterance. 

She  began,  but  it  was  in  such  thrilling,  touching, 
heart-breaking  accents,  that  the  trembling  player  for- 
got his  keys,  and  turned  upon  her,  gasping  for  breath, 
as  he  listened.     He  was  spell-bound. 

The  accompaniment  is  very  slight,  and  she  went  on 
for  a  few  bars  without  it ;  w^hen,  missing  a  leading 
chord  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed,  she  stooped 
over  Wilmar  as  she  sang,  feeling  vdth  her  soft  moist 
fingers  for  the  notes  she  wanted — his  feverish  hands 
lying  strained  and    motionless  upon  the  keys.      He 


86  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

could  not  have  stirred  for  ^vorlds ;  and,  carried  away 
by  the  despair,  the  anguish,  the  love  of  that  terrible 
prayer,  Madame  de  Saintlieu  went  on,  striking  the 
chords  as  the  modulations  melted  into  each  other,  or 
broke  into  startling  combinations.  She  ceased,  and 
went  back  to  her  seat,  taking  no  notice  of  his  strange 
conduct. 

At  length  he  recovered  his  voice. 

"I  have  found  it!"  he  cried,  in  wild  excitement; 
*'I  know  now  what  it  is — I  have  dreamed  aright. 
Yes — I  have  heard  that  in  my  dreams  a  thousand 
times.  Oh,  sing  it  again !  I  will  not  fail  you  this 
time!"  and  he  grasped  the  keys,  as  if  determined 
that  they  should  not  escape  him. 

She  smiled,  and  standing  up  at  the  piano,  was  ready 
to  begin. 

Wilmar  was  right — he  did  not  fail  her,  but  followed 
her  with  such  exquisite  truth  and  feeling,  that  voice 
and  instrument  vibrated  together,  as  if  one  had  pro- 
ceeded fi^om  the  other. 

^' Ah,  you  deserve  to  worship  art,"  she  said.  ^'Few 
are  the  happy  ones  who  do.  For,  with  this  divine 
gift,  what  ought  to  make  us  unhappy?" 

Wilmar  was  bewildered :  all  his  wild  dreams  of  art 
had  suddenly  become  true,  and  stood  revealed  before 
him.  No  wonder  that  he  mingled  his  worship  of  art 
with  adoration  for  her  who  had  first  embodied  it.  He 
trembled  violently  with  his  emotions ;  and  not  daring 
to  look  up,  he  unconsciously  caught  up  the  youngest 
child,  a  timid  fearful  little  thing,  and  pressed  her  con- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  87 

vulsively  in  his  arms.  The  child  screamed,  and  pal- 
pitating like  a  frightened  bird,  glided  from  his  arms, 
and  ran  sobbing  to  her  mother.  Her  sister  stepped 
valiantly  before  her,  and  with  flashing  eyes,  stood  in 
an  attitude  of  defiance,  as  if  to  protect  and  defend 
her.  Wilmar  was  abashed,  and  coloured  with  shame 
and  confusion. 

"There,  my  little  warrior,"  said  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu,  with  a  smile;  "that  will  do.  Mr.  Wilmar  did 
not  hurt  your  sister." 

The  girl  drew  back,  and  took  her  little  sister  by  the 
hand — keeping  a  watchful  eye  upon  Wilmar,  as  if  not 
quite  sure  of  his  pacific  intentions.  Madame  de 
Saintlieu  and  the  young  man  both  looked  at  the  two 
children ;  and  as  they  withdrew  their  glances,  their  eyes 
met. — Wilmar  blushed  again,  more  deeply  than  be- 
fore. Madame  de  Saintlieu  sufi*ered  her  eyes  to  rest 
upon  him  for  an  instant,  with  an  expression  full  of 
interest. 

"You  are  very  young  to  feel  so  deeply,"  she  said. 
"You  must  have  suffered." 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  replied,  "for  others:  we  do  not  sufier 
for  ourselves." 

"  That  is  true  only  of  those  who  devote  themselves 
to  art — or  to  religion." 

"  Are  they  not  the  same  ?  " 

"Perhaps.  I  do  not  think,  for  example,  that  there 
can  be  a  prayer  more  sincere  than  breathes  through 
that  music,"  pointing  to  the  ^partition  they  had  just 
been  usincc. 


88  OUR  FIR,sT  FAMILIES. 

"And  the  penitence  of  a  bereaved  and  disappointed 
heart,  that  comes  brokenly  back  to  cast  itself  at  the 
feet  of  its  Creator,"  said  AYilmar,  catching  the  deep 
enthusiasm  that  trembled  in  her  voice;  "where  has 
that  ever  been  so  touchingly  expressed  as  in  Fernan- 
do's  availing,  ^spirito  gentil'?*' 

"  I  see  you  understand  the  Favorita.  You  think, 
then,  that  our  'prayer'  will  do  for  the  concert?" 

"Yes,  yes — but  what  shall  come  after  it?" 

"  Oh,  we  must  fall  in  with  the  spirit  of  the  occa- 
sion, and  give  them  a  ballad,  or  a  chansonette,  or  per- 
haps a  polka,"  she  replied,  with  an  almost  impercep- 
tible shrug  of  disdain.  "But  you — vrhat  do  you  mean 
to  play?     Something  of  your  own,  I  hope." 

"I  have  written  nothing.  I  feel  the  fever,  but  not 
the  strength  of  composition:  and  yet,  I  sometimes 
dare  to  hope  that  the  power  is  latent  in  me.  But  I 
am  weak  and  wavering — I  need  some  sure  guidance 
in  my  blind  struggles  after  excellence.  Befriend  me 
— tell  me  how  to  begin,  how  to  go  on,  in  order  to  ex- 
tricate the  chaos  of  harmonies  that  come  unbidden  to 
me  every  hour,  and  seem  striving  for  expression." 

"You  will  smile  at  my  old-fashioned  stereotyped 
advice.  It  is,  to  study  the  old  masters  of  harmony 
and  counterpoint.  They  seem  dry  and  meager,  in 
these  florid  days  of  ornament  and  over-dressing.  Yet 
they  are  the  source  of  true  grandeur  and  repose — the 
only  foundation  for  style  and  sustained  individualism. 
Imitate  them  you  need  not — but  once  imbued  with 
their  severe  and  puritanic  spirit,  you  can  never  escape 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  89 

its  influence,  never  become  trifling  or  corrupt.  For 
the  rest,  your  own  inspiration  must  do  it  all." 

"  I  thank  you  sincerely.  I  have  only  needed  the 
encouragement  of  some  one  like  you,  to  confirm  me  in 
my  determination  to  commence  this  arduous  and  al- 
most appalling  work." 

^' It  need  be  neither  arduous  nor  appalling.  Look 
at  it  merely  as  a  series  of  dry  lessons  in  the  techni- 
calities of  mathematics,  and  master  only  a  few  of 
them  every  day.  Gradually  they  will  all  become  fa- 
miliar to  you — be  your  obedient  slaves,  and  minister  to 
you  of  their  own  will,  whenever  they  are  needed." 

"It  must  have  cost  immense  labour  to  have  at- 
tained that  mechanical  perfection  of  method  which 
makes  the  sense  of  method  lost,  in  listening  to  you." 

''  I  do  not  know — I  scarcely  remember.  I  certainly 
worked  hard ;  but  I  think  it  was  rather  to  understand 
and  feel  the  meaning  of  what  I  sang,  than  a  mere  ex- 
ercise of  the  difl"erent  notes.  I  am  a  very  poor  prac- 
titioner— I  do  not  know  whether  I  could  sing  a  scale 
correctly,  merely  standing  by  itself,  as  an  exercise." 

"Yet,  your  advice  to  me  is  on  a  different  prin- 
ciple." 

"No — the  lessons  of  the  old  masters  of  harmony 
become  in  themselves  inspirations,  the  moment  they 
are  comprehended.  Like  the  murmur  of  the  sea,  they 
contain  within  themselves  all  the  harmonies  of  na- 
ture." 

"Does  nature,  then,  actually  express  music?  I 
had  thought  differently." 


90  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"  Yes — only  the  composition  is  on  so  grand  a  scale, 
that  the  different  notes  seem  to  us  discordant  and  far 
apart.  What  appears  fragmentary  and  imperfect  to 
our  narrow  sense,  is  but  a  portion  of  that  universal 
harmony  which  is  ever  present  to  the  infinite  compre- 
hension." 

"What,  then,  is  art?" 

*'It  is  the  infinite,  compressed  to  the  compass  of  a 
single  brain.  Every  true  artist  carries  a  picture  of 
the  whole  universe  in  his  soul." 

"Your  words  are  light  to  one  who  walks  and  strug- 
gles in  darkness.  You  have  re-created  me.  I  am  no 
longer  what  I  was." 

"  You  mean,  merely,  that  I  have  furnished  the  clue 
by  which  you  can  explore  the  labyrinths  of  your  own 
being.     You  were  yesterday  what  you  are  to-day." 

"Yes,  yesterday — because  yesterday,  I  saw  you." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and' grew  alternately  pale  and 
red,  frightened  at  his  own  boldness. 

Mrs.  Loftu5  now  came  in.  She  was  afraid,  she 
said,  that  she  was  too  late.     Was  the  rehearsal  over? 

No — -they  had  just  begun — they  were  discussing 
the  principles  of  art. 

"You  have  an  apt  scholar,  Madame  de  Saintlieu," 
said  Mrs.  Loftus,  with  a  meaning  smile;  "be  careful 
that  you  do  not  teach  him  too  much ! " 

It  was  her  tui-n  now  to  blush.  But  she  rose  hastily, 
and  going  to  the  piano,  proposed  that  they  should 
sing  another  Italian  piece.     "I  suppose,"  she  said  to 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  91 

Mrs.  Loftus,  "  we  must  have  at  least  two  grand  scenas, 
or  something  at  least  as  grandiloquent?" 

"  Oh,  I  know  nothing  about  all  that — arrange  it  to 
suit  yourselves.  But  I  should  like  to  hear  some- 
thing new,  if  only  to  be  in  advance  of  the  public." 

"Well — here  is  Schubert's  Serenade:  we  must 
contrive  to  get  that  in,  somehow — though  it  really 
should  be  sung  by  a  man." 

If  Wilmar  had  been  captivated  by  the  tenderness 
and  feeling  which  Madame  de  Saintlieu  had  imparted 
to  Leonora's  prayer,  he  was  overwhelmed  with  the 
passion  of  the  Serenade.  He  could  not  speak — he 
could  scarcely  breathe.  Even  Mrs.  Loftus  was  over- 
come. She  went  up  to  her  friend  and  took  her  in  her 
arms. 

"My  dear  friend!"  said  she,  with  animation,  "if 
the  barbarians  of  this  our  democratic  realm  don't  fall 
down  and  vrorship  you — or  build  you  a  temple — or 
carry  you  on  their  shoulders — or  some  other  such 
folly,  they  deserve  to  be  humbugged  all  their  lives ! 
I  declare,  I  never  heard  singing  like  that  before.  It 
is  actually  love,  and  pleading,  and  passion.  One 
doesn't  think  of  the  music  at  all." 

"  We  don't  think  of  the  etymology  and  the  other 
grammatical  ologies,  when  we  read  Shakspeare,"  said 
Madame  de  Saintlieu,  with  a  gay  laugh.  "It  ought 
to  be  the  same  with  music.  Those  who  listen  to  it 
merely  to  analyze  the  quavers  and  cadenzas,  have  no 
right  to  listen  to  it  at  all.     The  musical  snuff-box  does 


92  Om  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

all  that  much  better  than  any  voice  or  instrument  can 
do.'' 

"I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  most  admirable  as 
critic  or  as  artist,"  replied  Mrs.  Loftus. 

"Or  as  woman!"  ejaculated  Wilmar,  to  his  own 
heart.  Poor  Wilmar!  Madame  de  Saintlieu  had 
well  said,  "I  wish  I  could  help  him?"  For  he  could 
not  help  himself! 


OUR  FIRST  FAxMILIES.  93 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


THE    TWO    ACTRESSES. 


Mrs.  Henderson  and  her  daughter  found  Mrs.  At- 
tarby  at  home.  On  the  way,  Sarah  had  found  means 
to  persuade  her  mother  to  take  her  up  stairs  with  her, 
to  see  the  great  actress,  and  had  artfully  drawn  from 
her  the  motive  of  this  unusual  and  extraordinary  visit. 

"Surely,"  said  the  curious  and  observant  Sarah  to 
herself,  as  they  were  shown  into  a  large  handsome 
library,  over  the  drawing  rooms;  "this  doesn't  look 
much  like  what  mamma  said.  I  should  take  Mrs.  At- 
tarby  for  anything  but  an  actress." 

Mrs.  Attarby  was  a  large,  noble-looking  woman, 
with  a  natural  grandeur  and  repose,  reminding  you 
insensibly  of  the  majesty  of  ancient  art.  Although 
superficially  correct,  as  to  Mrs.  Attarby's  appearance 
presenting  none  of  the  usual  or  supposed  indications  of 
her  profession,  yet  intrinsically  she  was  wrong.  To  a 
critical  and  philosophic  observer,  no  woman  ever  looked 
so  eminently  fitted  for  being  an  actress.  She  seemed 
capable,  at  a  glance,  of  embodying  the  extremes  of 
human  passion,  dignity,  and  suffering.     The  character- 


94  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

istic  expression  of  her  large  face  was,  energy  in  re- 
pose. When  she  slowly  raised  her  large  heavy  eyes, 
like  a  cloud  charged  with  electricity,  resting  over  the 
still  tranquil  horizon,  she  seemed  capable  of  anything, 
of  every  thing. 

As  her  visiters  entered,  Mrs.  Attarby  rose,  and  coming 
towards  them  with  the  easy  alacrity  of  well-bred  po- 
liteness, welcomed  them  cordially.  ~ 

''Good  morning,  Mrs.  Henderson,"  she  said,  in  a 
frank,  joyous  voice,  holding  out  both  hands  to  her 
visiter,  with  the  palms  upY\'ards,  and  in  such  an  en- 
gaging friendly  way,  that  the  prudish  and  puritanical 
quaker — prudish  and  puritanical,  at  least,  to  the  world's 
people,  and  most  of  all  to  the  people  of  that  mimic 
world,  the  stage — could  not  help  placing  her  own 
formless  and  undeveloped  fingers  in  those  flexible, 
mobile,  and  expressive  palms. 

No  man  can  have  been  long  a  close  observer  of  the 
physical  differences  in  mankind,  formed  by  the  differ- 
ences of  internal  character  and  habits,  without  be- 
coming, to  a  certain  extent,  a  believer  in  palmistry. 
That  science,  however  absurdly  it  may  have  been 
abused  by  the  dishonesty  of  its  professors,  and  the  ig- 
norance and  superstition  of  other  times,  is  undoubtedly 
as  nearly  connected  with  the  real  and  noble  science 
of  physiology,  as  chemistry  with  alchemy,  or  astronomy 
with  astrology.  All  great  and  valuable  discoveries  in 
science,  are  preceded  by  partial  revelations,  here  and 
there  the  result  of  accident  or  solitary  study :  and  the 
bigotry  and  ignorance  of  mankind — always  the  parent 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  95 

of  selfishness— ever  seek  to  coiiRect  these  discoveries 
mth  individual  hopes,  fears,  and  interests,  and  furnish 
the  cunning  and  designing  -with  their  most  powerful 
instruments  over  the  minds  of  men. 

The  meeting  of  Mrs.  Henderson  and  Mrs.  Attarhj, 
was  a  curious  and  interesting  social  phenomenon.  The 
haughty,  exclusive,  disdainful,  leader  of  society,  was 
constrained,  artificial,  evidently  acting  an  ill-studied 
part;  while  the  actress  herself  was  as  natural,  as  un- 
studied, as  stately  in  her  yielding  grace,  as  a  forest 
tree.  It  was  a  pity  that  so  instructive  a  ''situation," 
should  not  have  taken  place  before  the  public.  But  it 
had  one  observant,  quick-witted,  keen-sighted  auditor. 
Sarah  smiled,  with  an  expression  it  was  difficult  to 
analyze,  as  she  watched  the  meeting  of  the  two  ac- 
tresses. 

r  "  I  am  truly  happy  that  you  have  at  length  found 
me  out,  my  dear  madam,  and  beaten  me  up  in  my  re- 
treat. And  you.  Miss  Henderson — although  I  have 
not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  being  presented  to  you,  it 
does  not  need — you  are  too  faithful  a  souvenir  of  your 
beautiful  mother  to  require  naming — I  assure  you  that 
you  have  given  me  great  pleasui'e  by  coming  to  me  in 
this  friendly  and  unceremonious  way." 

"I  know  my  visit  must  seem  very  strange,"  said 
Mrs.  Henderson,  striving  to  regain  her  usual  frigid 
composure;  "it  is  so  unexpected — so" 

"Every  pleasure  is  unexpected,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson ;  they  are  so  few,  in  this  life,  that  one  soon  ceases 
altogether  to  look  for  them.     But  vv^hen,  by  chance, 


96  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

one  does  come — and  especially  in  such  a  shape,"  she 
added,  with  a  gracious  smile  at  mother  and  daughter — 
*'it  is  so  much  the  more  welcome." 

*' Madam,  you  completely  conquer  me  by  your  good- 
ness. I  must  frankly  own  that  I  have  been  heretofore 
restrained  from  cultivating  youi'  acquaintance,  by  the 
absui'd  prejudices,  as  you  will  call  them,  of  my  educa- 
tion, as  well  as  from  many  foolish  and  idle  rumours, 
to  which  I  myself  must  have  been  quite  as  foolish  and 
idle,  to  have  paid  the  least  attention.  I  honestly  owe 
you  this  confession  and  this  apology,  which  I  freely 


"  Do  not  let  us  say  another  word  about  it.  I  have 
met  with  so  much  bitterer  things  lately,  than  neglect 
and  silence,  that  I  have  no  room  in  my  memory  for 
any  such  partial  injustice.  Besides,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  really  have  given  cause  for  a  great  deal  of 
gossip,  by  systematically  outraging  many  of  the  minor 
requirements  of  good  society.  This  has  been  done 
partly  from  a  natural  impatience  of  control  or  super- 
vision by  any  but  the  prompter  and  the  call  boy ;  and 
partly  from  a  disdain  of  much  that  I  have  seen  and 
suffered  since  I  assumed  my  present  mode  of  life.  So 
you  see  that  I  have  been  myself  as  much  to  blame  as 
you:  I  pray  you,  let  us  cry  quits,  and  be  friends." 

"Willingly,  most  willingly.  Still,  before  I  can  ac- 
cept the  treaty,  I  must  make  another  confession.  My 
visit,  even  now,  is  not  so  much  one  of  good  will — or 
was  not  until  I  met  you — as  of  pure  selfishness.  I 
came  to  ask  a  very  great  favour  of  you." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  97 

"  Oh,  then  it  is  all  right,  and  we  shall  be  sworx 
friends  forever.    Let  me  know  what  it  is  immediately." 

^'  The  fact  is,"  continued  Mrs.  Henderson,  colouring, 
and  striving  in  vain  to  overcome  her  embarrassment ; 
*'it  is  altogether  a  very  selfish  affair,  and  you  will 
think  all  the  worse  of  me  when  you  know  it.  In  a 
word,  then,  that  Mrs.  Valentine  has  turned  the  heads 
of  everybody,  with  a  matinee  musicale,  which  she  is  to 
give  on  Wednesday,  at  which  she  is  to  present  a  pro- 
tege of  Mrs.  Loftus,  Madame  de  Saintlieu — and — 
and — I  was  thinking  if  you  w^ould  favour  us  with  your 
company  to  our  family  dinner  on  Wednesday," 

"  Say  no  more — I  accept  at  once.  I  am  sure  you 
could  not  think  any  apology  necessary  for  such  an  in- 
vitation." 

"  Stop,  stop  !  you  must  hear  me  out,  Mrs.  Attarby," 
said  Mrs.  Henderson,  colouring.  ^'I  must  add  that 
in  the  evening  there  is  to  be  a  little  conversazione — 
and  I  was  in  hopes  that,  perhaps,  you  would  conde- 
scend to " 

''Ah,  ha!"  said  Mrs.  Attarby,  laughing,  and  for  a 
moment  enjoying  her  visiter's  confusion;  "I  think  I 
understand  you,  at  la^st.  You  wish  to  see  me  mounted 
on  the  cothurnus  once  more !  You,  who  would  never 
come  to  such  a  dreadful  place  as  the  theatre,  to  give 
countenance  to  trifling  amusements !  Oh,  fy !  my 
dear  madam  !     How  could  you ! — —'' 

''Pardon  me,  madam,"  said  Mrs.  Henderson,  stung 
by  the  reproach,  although  it  was  spoken  jestingly,  and 
drawing  herself  up  somewhat  stiffly;  "we  will  speak 
9 


98  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

no  more  of  it — I  have  agfiin  to  crave  your  forgive- 
ness." 

"But  we  ivill  speak  more  of  it,  my  dear  friend,  we 
will  speak  of  nothing  else.  I  will  do  it  with  the  greatest 
pleasure;  in  fact,  I  shall  enjoy  it  hugely.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  am  horribly  bored  at  missing  all  my  ac- 
customed darling  excitements  of  the  stage,  which  are 
but  scantily  repaid  by  the  poor  fun  of  aggravating 
my  neighbours  by  my  systematic  hizarreries.  What 
shall  it  be  ?  You  shall  judge  for  yourself.  Here  is 
my  Shakspeare — there,  pick  and  choose.  What  do 
you  say.  Miss  Henderson?  Come,  madam,  let  us 
leave  it  to  your  daughter.  I  warrant  she  is  a  better 
student  of  Shakspeare  than  you  are." 

''Well,  child,  since  Mrs.  Attarby  is  so  kind — so 
very  kind — I  leave  the  choice  to  you." 

The  blushing  Sarah  took  the  book,  and  turning 
over  the  pages,  paused  at  those  magic  names,  to  whose 
utterance  the  heart  of  youth  and  love  ever  responds, 
as  if  they  were  indeed  a  spell. 

"Ah,  I  guessed  as  much!"  said  the  actress,  with  a 
mischievous  smile.  "  So  fair  and  sweet  a  Juliet  could 
never  be  so  cruel  as  to  overlook  the  gentle  Romeo. — 
That  is  settled,  then — Romeo  and  Juliet  it  shall  be. 
I  will  clip  and  trim  it  of  every  thing  extraneous,  or 
inappropriate  to  a  drawing-room  reading,  and  you  may 
announce  me  to  your  public,  Mrs.  Manager,  in  such 
terms  as  your  majesty  may  please.  Oh,  it  will  be 
delightful!" 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  99 

''And  Mr.  Attarbj, — I  hope  we  shall  hav£  the  plea- 
sure of  his  company,  with  yours,  at  dinner?" 

"  Oh  yes, — that  is,  if  he  is  not  already  engaged  at 
the  rival  house.  Should  Mrs.  Manager  Valentine  have 
sent  him  a  valentine  edict,  through  Mrs.  Graeme,  her 
stage  manager,  he  will  not  dare  to  disobey.  However, 
he  will  at  least  drop  in  during  the  evening.  The  pro- 
prieties shall  all  be  observed — never  fear  Mr.  Attarby 
for  that." 

Every  thing  being  thus  happily  arranged,  Mrs. 
Henderson  rose  and  took  her  leave,  with  many  ex- 
pressions of  thanks,  while  her  heart  beat  high  with 
her  anticipated  triumph  over  her  "rival  manager," 
as  Mrs.  Attarby  had  not  inappropriately  styled  her 
enemy,  Mrs.  Valentine.  For  a  moment  the  two  ladies 
stood  face  to  face,  each  curiously  scanning  the  other, 
and  endeavouring  to  penetrate  the  disguise  of  which 
each  suspected  the  other  to  wear.  Then,  mutual  in- 
vitations were  exchanged — Mrs.  Henderson  promised, 
in  reply  to  an  appealing  look  from  her  daughter,  to 
let  Sarah  come  and  spend  a  day  with  her  new  acquain- 
tance. The  TWO  ACTRESSES  Separated — the  curtain 
fell — and  the  prologue  of  our  play  was  over. 


100  OUR  FIRST  l'A3IILIES. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  FAST  MAN. 


In  our  democratic  country,  party  spirit  runs  as  high 
at  those  ijarties  that  take  phice  in  society,  as  in  those 
formed  and  directed  in  political  committee  rooms. 
Every  class  has  its  cliques  and  family  interests,  Tvhich 
unite  or  di^ade  into  factions,  who  wage  war  with  all  the 
acrimony  and  perseverance  of  a  presidential  campaign. 
The  difference  is,  that  in  society,  parties  are  made  up 
and  controlled  by  women,  and  that  their  triumphs  are 
directed  to  the  gratification  of  vanity  instead  of  ava- 
rice. In  both,  however,  ambition,  or  the  love  of  power, 
is  equally  conspicuous;  but  we  must  give  the  wo- 
men the  credit  of  greater  tact  and  versatility  in  their 
schemes  and  manoeuvres,  than  their  male  counterparts. 
In  fact,  history  shows,  that  in  all  ages,  women  have 
been  the  most  adroit  and  successful  politicians;  and 
our  friend  "Sam"  may  congratulate  himself  that  the 
ladies  are  all  in  his  favour — though,  paradoxically 
enough,  they  are  not  opposed  to  "foreign  influence," 
especially  if  it  has  bright  eyes,  and  wears  a  handsome 
black  moustache ! 

In  another  important  particular,  there  is  great  re- 
semblance between  the  managers  of  political  and  so- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  10 1 

cial  parties — their  mutual  tendency  to  make  use  of 
civilization,  for  the  purpose  of  attaining  or  keeping 
popularity  or  power.  What  the  ''b'hoy"  is  to  the 
politician,  the  "fast  man"  is  to  the  lady  managers  of 
our  "first  families."  Although  neither  of  these  wor- 
thies is  very  highly  respected  by  those  who  employ 
him,  yet  they  are  both  treated  with  great  outward  con- 
sideration— a  combination  of  fear  and  flattery,  exactly 
adapted  to  the  mental  calibre  of  these  equivocal  genera 
of  the  human  species,  which  gratifies  their  vanity,  and 
prevents  them  from  ever  suspecting  that  they  are 
being  merely  made  use  of  to  serve  the  vanity  of  others. 

With  the  rowdy  of  the  politicians  we  are  not  going 
to  meddle  at  present.  He  will  find  his  turn  in  due 
time.     Our  present  object  is  the  "fast  man." 

Edward  Ingraham,  w^hose  name  has  already  ap- 
peared in  our  pages  as  the  lover  of  Helen  Wilmar, 
was  a  thorough  specimen  of  a  "fast  man."  Until  the 
rupture  of  his  match  with  Helen,  her  gentle  influence 
had  greatly  restrained  his  natural  recklessness,  and 
besides,  he  was  then  very  young,  and  had  not  lost  all 
shame  and  principle.  His,  mother,  too,  had  hereto- 
fore exerted  a  restraining,  if  not  a  beneficial  influence 
over  him.  She  was  the  sister-in-law  of  Mrs.  Valen- 
tine, and  had  been  left  a  widow  very  soon  after  her 
marriage  with  Mr.  Ingraham,  with  an  only  son — Ed- 
ward— whom  she  had  brought  up  in  the  expectation 
of  making  a  great  figure  in  the  fashionable  world, — 
that  narrow  circle  by  which  all  her  hopes  were 
bounded.     On  learning  the  loss  of  the  Wilmars'  for- 

9* 


102  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

tune,  as  lias  been  seen,  the  match  between  Echvard 
and  Helen  Wilmar  had  been  peremptorily  broken  oft'. 
Edward,  who  really  had  a  great  liking  for  the  girl, 
pleaded  feebly  for  her  at  first;  but  the  inflexible  will 
of  the  mother  prevailed,  and  he  was  compelled  to  give 
her  up.  This  made  him  reckless  and  dissipated,  and 
he  plunged  headlong  into  every  folly.  About  a  year 
afterwards,  his  mother  died  suddenly.  He  found  him- 
self master  of  his  own  actions,  and  of  almost  incalcu- 
lable wealth,  with  none  to  dictate  to  him,  or  even 
remonstrate  with  him.  After  a  year  spent  in  Paris — 
where  he  cut  but  a  sorry  figure — plucked  and  morti- 
fied, he  returned  to  Philadelphia,  took  up  his  abode  in 
his  aunt's  house,  and  recommenced  his  life  as  a  ''fast 
man."  Since  then,  he  had  expanded  into  full  bloom; 
he  was  a  perfect  type  of  his  class — a  roue,  a  gambler, 
a  libertine,  a  spendthrift,  ready,  at  any  moment,  for 
a  "spree,"  and  always  confoundedly  bored  in  the 
morning  with  the  efiects  of  his  overnight's  debauch, 
and  not  fairly  coming  to  himself  until  the  afternoon, 
after  he  had  imbibed  "drinks"  enough  to  get  up 
steam  and  reach  the  general  level  of  perpetual  tipsi- 
ness.  When  he  had  arrived  at  this  point,  he  was 
ready  for  anything — for  the  gambling-house,  the  dance- 
house,  the  drinking-cellar,  the  brothel,  or  any  other 
place  or  enterprise  which  any  of  his  gang  might  pro- 
pose. 

Ned  Ingraham's  immense  fortune  was  held  entirely 
in  his  own  right,  being  inherited  from  his  father,  who 
had  been  killed,  Avhen  his  son  was  three  years  old,  in 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  lOo 

a  fit  of  apoplexy,  brought  on  by  a  debauch  with  the 
grooms  and  jockeys  at  a  horse-race.  The  son  was 
profuse  in  his  expenditure  of  money,  simple  in  his 
wits,  easily  led  and  gulled,  and  consequently  a  tre- 
mendous favourite  with  all  the  genteel  sharpers,  black- 
legs, and  swindlers  about  town.  A  gang  of  these 
worthies  attended  him  in  his  nightly  peregrinations 
among  the  billiard-rooms,  rafiling-shops,  eating-houses, 
and  other  haunts  of  vice  and  dissipation.  They  ob- 
served towards  him  the  greatest  deference  —  wore 
waistcoats  and  trowsers  as  nearly  his  pattern  as  their 
limited  credit  at  the  tailor's  would  allow, — rode  his 
horses,  borrowed  or  won  his  money,  ate  his  suppers, 
and  carefully  carried  him  home  o'  nights,  when  he  was 
too  far  gone  to  help  himself. 

"Cousin  Neddy"  was  a  great  pet  of  Mrs.  Valen- 
tine, who  had  divined  that  the  endearing  epithet  of 
"cousin"  sounded  better  than  the  antiquated  stateli- 
ness  of  "my  nephew,"  and  besides,  gave  room  for  a 
charitable  doubt  as  to  her  own  age  greatly  in  her 
favour.  His  room  was  one  of  the  most  elegant  in  her 
house ;  although  he  was  looked  upon  with  a  hopeless 
terror  by  Mr.  Valentine — a  weakly,  timid  invalid,  who 
Ziad  long  since  given  up  his  merchandising,  and  re- 
tired from  the  world,  to  nurse  that  health  which  he 
had  lost  in  looking  after  his  great  money  matters. 
American  readers  will  experience  no  surprise  in  being 
thus  casually  introduced  to  the  husband  of  one  of  the 
principal  personages  of  our  history — such  instances 
of  the  nonentity  of  husbands  with  dashing  and  fashion- 


104  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

able  wives,  are  unfortunately  by  no  means  rare. 
Whether  Mr.  Valentine  will  reappear  at  all  in  our 
pages,  depends  altogether  upon  circumstances.  At 
present,  neither  we  nor  Mrs.  Valentine  can  make  any 
farther  use  of  him. 

But  cousin  Neddy  was  a  different  sort  of  person- 
age. His  immense  popularity  among  the  young  men 
about  town,  had  been  often  used  to  promote  the  views 
of  this  bold  and  experienced  party  tactician — while 
his  great  wealth,  and  a  really  handsome  face  and  per- 
son, made  him  acceptable  to  the  women,  both  old  and 
young,  and  ''plated  with  gold"  the  innumerable  and 
notorious  sins,  in  the  commission  of  which  his  life  was 
passed. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Valentine  had  not  failed  to  send 
forth  her  cousin  to  trumpet  the  glories  of  her  forth- 
coming entertainment.  One  morning  after  the  affair 
was  settled,  she  sent  up,  after  taking  breakfast  in  her 
own  room,  to  know  whether  Mr.  Ingraham  was  at  lei- 
sure. 

"Certainly — always  at  Mrs.  Valentine's  service." 

He  was  sitting  in  a  velvet  dressing-gown,  in  the 
flashiest  Palais  Royal  cut  and  pattern — in  fact  it  had 
been  manufactured  in  that  emporium  of  the  "latest 
fashions,"  expressly  for  the  American  market — and 
smoking  a  cigar ;  while  a  half-emptied  glass  of  brandy 
and  water  stood  on  the  little  marble  table  beside  him. 

"Good  morning,  Coz,"  said  Mrs.  Valentine,  enter- 
ing the  room  without  ceremony. 

"Aw — how  do,  aunty!"  the  young  man  replied, 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  105 

rocking  back  in  his  arm-chair,  looking  listlessly  up 
over  his  forehead,  and  puffing  a  whiff  of  smoke  into 
her  face.  "  Sit  down — smoke  won't  hurt  you,  it's  a 
genuine  puras — very  good!  What  can  I  do  for 
you?'' 

"You  have  bestirred  yourself  about  my  matinee 
musicale,  haven't  you?" 

"  Ya — yes — aw !  I  believe  Gibbs  was  jabbering 
something  about  its  being  all  right,  this  morning,  while 
I  was  being  tumbled  into  bed.  Do  you  want  my  help 
in  the  programme,  aunty?  I'll  sing  'em  a  solo  on 
the  trombone,  that  shall  astonish  their  weak  nerves ! 
Just  listen!"  and  taking  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  he 
put  one  fist  to  his  mouth,  and  with  the  other  made 
motions  <i  la  trombone,  at  the  same  time  uttering  a 
series  of  brays,  w^hich  certainly  bore  no  slight  resem- 
blance to  the  trombone  part  in  Max  Maretzek's  ver- 
sion of  Rigoletto. 

"Oh,  Ned,  for  heaven's  sake,  stop ! "  exclaimed  his 
aunt,  stopping  her  ears;  "you'll  kill  me!" 

"What!  you  underrate  my  musical  abilities,  then? 
Well — ^^it's  the  fate  of  genius,  as  somebody  says  in  the 
play.     What  do  you  want  of  me,  then?  " 

"  Why,  I  want  you  to  go  about  particularly  amongst 
the  young  men,  and  get  all  the  women  up  in  arms  to 
come.  And  I  want  you  to  take  a  package  of  tickets, 
and  sell  them  amongst  your  acquaintances.  Get  hold 
of  some  of  the  reporters,  or  penny-a-liners,  or  what- 
ever they  are  called,  and  give  them  the  information, 
as  a  very  great  favour,  and  a  profound  secret.     I  am 


lOG  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

determined  it  shall  be  the  greatest  affair  of  the  season. 
The  Hendersons  have  already  heard  of  it,  and  will 
no  doubt  give  one  of  their  grand  dinners  on  the  same 
day.     But  I  shall  outshine  them  this  time,  any  how." 

"A  very  fine  girl,  though,  that  Sally  Henderson, 
aunt !  I've  pretty  much  made  up  my  mind  to  marry 
her,  and  get  you  all  into  an  uncommon  muss,  like  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  you  know.  Valentine  and  Henderson. 
Not  a  bad  idea,  indeed !  And  then  the  fun  of  carry- 
ing her  away  from  old  Broadbrim  there !  Ha !  ha ! 
I'll  do  it,  aunt!" 

"Nonsense !  Don't  be  so  stupid !  Go  and  do  what 
I  tell  you,  and  let  Sarah  Henderson  alone." 

"But  I  won't,  though,  and — I  tell  you  my  mind's 
made  up.  I  met  Sarah  the  other  day  at  Parkinson's, 
looking  as  fresh  as  a  rose:  and  I  know  she  would 
have  got  into  a  chat  with  me,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
her  mother.  It  will  be  glorious  fun — Romeo  and  Ju- 
liet in  real  life  I  " 

""Well,  well — never  mind  all  that,  now.  Dress 
yourself  and  do  what  I  tell  you.  There  are  the 
tickets — mind,  you  must  sell  them  all,  or  I  shall  have 
to  pay  for  them.  Don't  be  a  good-for-nothing  now, 
but  remember  what  I  tell  3'Ou." 

"Well,  aunt,  you  know  you  always  manage  to  get 
what  you  want  out  of  me.  But  you  must  promise 
me  not  to  get  jealous  of  little  Sally  Henderson,  and 
cross  any  of  my  plans  there, — or  I  won't  stir  for  you, 
and  the  ynatin^e  musicale  may  go  to  the  d — 1." 


OUll  FIRST  FAMILIES.  107 

"I  promise,  you  naughty  boy — because  I  know  you 
are  only  trying  to  vex  me.     So,  go  along." 

Mrs.  Valentine  having  taken  her  leave,  Edward  got 
up,  walked  to  a  psyche  glass  in  the  corner,  and  sur- 
veying himself  complacently,  said : 

"I  don't  think  little  Sally  can  withstand  that,  eh, 
Mr.  Edward  Ingraham  ?  As  for  aunty,  she'll  be  fu- 
rious, I  know — but  who  cares  ?  I  am  my  own  master, 
and  she — isn't  my  mistress — ehem !  " 

He  then  set  about  the  serious  task  of  dressing — 
having  rung  the  bell  for  Gibbs,  an  English  valet,  to 
whose  judicious  management  and  experience  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Ingraham  owed  his  escape  from  being  taken  in 
public  for  what  he  was  in  private — a  vulgarian  and  a 
decided  ''flash  cove."  Having  finished  his  cigar,  and 
emptied  a  second  glass  of  brandy  and  water,  our  fast 
man  took  a  final  survey  of  himself  in  the  glass,  and 
sallied  forth  upon  his  mission. 

While  he  walks  leisurely  down  Chestnut  street,  we 
will  stop  an  instant  to  look  in  upon  Mrs.  Valentine, 
who  is  seated  at  a  writing-desk,  reading  over  a  note 
which  she  has  just  finished. 

"  There — I  think  that  will  do  the  coxcomb's  business. 
He  little  thinks  that  I  know  all  about  the  French  girl 
in  Cherry  street — she'll  soon  settle  his  new  penchant 
for  Miss  Henderson.  '  Mdlle  Rosalie  Durand,  No.  — 
Cherry  street.'  Now,  cousin  Neddy,  I  think  I  have 
the  game  in  my  own  hands.  I  can't  spare  you,  my 
dear,  stupid,  handsome  cousin,  on  any  account! " 

Leaving  our  hero's  aunt-cousin  to  despatch  her  note 


108  OUR  riR;ST  FAMILIES. 

to  Mdlle  Durancl,  we  will  overtake  and  accompany 
that  gentleman  on  his  afternoon  and  evening  rambles. 
Our  history  would  neither  be  truthful  nor  complete,  if 
we  did  not  let  our  readers  see  a  little  of  what  is  called 
''life"  by  the  "fast"  and  rising  generation. 

His  first  stopping-place  was  a  fashionable  drinking- 
shop,  or  "coffee-house,"  as  the  grandiloquence  of  the 
times  has  named  these  places — a  greater  number  of 
which  are  to  be  found  in  Philadelphia,  than  perhaps 
in  any  other  city  on  the  continent.  Every  country 
has  its  customs,  as  the  polite  Frenchman  remarked, 
when  the  mob  at  the  pit  door  of  the  theatre  tore  his 
coat  off  his  back.  The  Indian  smokes  over  every- 
thing— the  Arab  divides  his  salt  with  the  stranger — ■ 
the  Englishman  shakes  hands ;  but  over  every  trans- 
action of  life,  trifling  or  important,  the  American 
"takes  a  drink."  If  we  conclude  a  bargain,  the  party 
who  fancies  he  has  got  the  best  of  it,  immediately  in- 
vites his  victim  to  "take  a  drink."  If  we  bet  on  the 
election,  swap  horses,  or  make  up  a  marriage  for  our 
children,  we  take  a  drink.  It  is  even  related  of  a  pi- 
ous deacon,  that,  on  announcing  to  the  assembled 
vestry  the  gratifying  fact  that  the  debt  incurred  for 
painting  the  parson's  house,  had  been  paid  off  by  the 
congregation,  he  concluded  by  inviting  his  fellow-mem- 
bers to  go  across  the  way  and  take  a  drink. 

At  the  fashionable  hotel,  the  "bar,"  which  has  been 
kept  open  till  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  night,  serving 
out  hot  shot,  like  the  Lancaster  battery  at  Sebastopol, 
is  re-opened  at  six  or  seven  in  the  morning,  in  readi- 


OUR  FIEST  FAMILIES.  109 

ness  for  the  thirsty  travellers  from  west  and  south, 
who  generally  take  a  cock-tail  before  letting  on  their 
boots,  and  another  before  breakfast.  This  scattering 
fire — with  now  and  then  a  variation  in  the  shape  of  a 
bottle  of  sarsaparilla  or  lemon  soda,  in  favour  of  some- 
body with  a  private  head-ache — is  kept  up  till  eleven 
o'clock,  when  the  regular  "lunch"  begins.  Citizens 
now  rush  in,  from  store,  office,  and  counting-house, 
intent  upon  making  up  for  the  deficiencies  of  their 
sloppy  home  breakfast,  with  a  plate  of  fried  tripe  and 
pickled  cucumbers,  and  a  brandy  smash. 

It  is  not  until  in  the  afternoon  and  evening,  however, 
that  the  heavy  business  of  the  bars  begins ;  and  it  was 
about  three  o'clock,  when  Mr.  Ingraham  made  his  first 
call  at  one  of  these  regular  haunts,  where,  at  the 
proper  hours,  he  was  sure  of  meeting  several  of  his 
companions.  He  had  evidently  been  waited  for,  on 
the  present  occasion,  and  his  arrival  was  greeted  by  a 
shout  of  welcome.  "Drinks  all  round"  were  immedi- 
ately called  for,  although  several  glasses  were  still 
unemptied.  However,  it  won't  do  to  hang  back,  in  such 
a  crowd  as  this.  Thirsty  or  not,  tipsy  or  drunk,  drink 
you  must ;  and  the  greatest  of  all  possible  fun,  is  to 
get  one  of  the  party  so  far  gone  that  he  cannot  stand. 
He  is  then  taken  home  in  triumph,  or  put  to  bed  at  a 
hotel,  w^hile  his  companions  resume  their  travels  in 
high  glee. 

Round  after  round  of  drinks  was  called  on  and  dis- 
posed of;  and  Ingraham  at  length  began  to  feel,  as  he 
declared,  "about  right."     It  was  then   proposed  to 
10 


110  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

sally  forth,  in  pursuit  of  the  regular  business  of  the 
night — as  it  Avas  already  getting  dark,  and  there  Tvas 
no  time  to  be  lost.  They  therefore  fortified  them- 
selves TN'ith  another  drink,  lighted  fresh  cigars,  and 
scrambled  up  stairs  into  the  street — boldly  elbowing 
off  the  sidewalk  every  small  boy,  or  old  man,  and  in- 
sulting every  woman,  they  encountered. — Wherever 
an  underground  temple  of  the  bacchanalian  god, 
belching  its  reeking  gas-light  across  the  walk,  showed 
that  the  perpetual  saturnalia  was  going  on  beneath, 
our  hero  and  his  friends  would  make  a  rushing  descent, 
and  renew  their  potations — flanked  by  occasional  dishes 
of  ham  and  eggs,  sausages,  and  deviled  crabs,  cooked 
last  week,  and  kept  stewing  in  dishes  swimming  in  hot 
water.  Then  they  looked  in  at  the  billiard-rooms  and 
bowling-alleys — always  commencing  and  ending  the 
visit  with  a  drink.  At  one  of  these  places,  having  got 
elevated  to  the  quarrelsome  point,  they  interrupted  a 
couple  of  gentlemen  who  were  quietly  pursuing  their 
game.  The  gentlemen  resented — a  general  row  took 
place — and  our  heroes  came  off  second  best — one  w^ith 
a  smashed  hat,  another  with  his  coat  torn,  and  Ingra- 
ham  himself,  with  a  bloody  nose.  Having,  by  the  aid 
of  the  various  shops  which  these  diversified  disasters 
called  into  requisition,  repaired  damages,  they  stopped 
at  Jones',  took  a  drink,  and  started  again,  in  quest  of 
more  "fun." 

Our  party  of  "nice  young  men"  next,  in  their 
search  after  fun,  found  their  way  into  a  "  raffling  shop," 
a  low,  dirty,  sickening  room,  opening  from  a  blind  al- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES,  111 

ley,  and  filled  with  unwashed,  tipsy,  swearing  rowdies, 
crowding  around  the  dice-tables,  drinking  and  quar- 
relling over  every  throw.  Having  taken  a  turn  at 
the  dice,  and  a  drink  all  round,  (they  were  now  at 
that  point  where  all  liquor,  good  or  bad,  tasted  alike 
to  them,)  they  crossed  over  the  narrow  alley,  and  dived 
into  a  dark  and  noisome  cellar,  where  a  bagatelle  table 
in  one  corner  was  in  brisk  operation — the  balls,  of 
various  sizes  and  discoloured  by  age  to  the  hue  of 
their  own  tobacco-stained  teeth,  being  chipped  and 
notched  on  all  sides,  and  the  one  being  apparently  con- 
structed from  the  remains  of  a  fifty  cent  umbrella-han- 
dle. However,  it  was  SiW '' couleur  de  rose''  to  our 
elated  heroes — and  sucJi  fun  to  knock  the  balls  into 
the  holes,  and  then  cheat  one  another  in  counting  the 
game! 

After  some  half-a-dozen  rounds,  however,  even  this 
refined  and  intellectual  amusement  grew  monotonous ; 
and  our  friends  started  in  pursuit  of  something  more 
piquant  and  exciting.  This,  under  the  direction  of 
the  unfaltering  Ingraham,  who  was  ^'up"  to  every 
thing,  was  soon  found.  Entering  a  small  but  hand- 
some bar,  fitted  up  with  considerable  elegance,  where 
they  of  course  all  took  another  drink,  they  made  their 
way  through  a  dark  hall,  up  a  narrow  staircase,  and 
into  a  large  and  handsome  apartment,  composed  of  the 
two  parlours  of  the  first  floor.  In  the  front  room  was 
a  large  table  covered  with  green  cloth,  around  which 
were  seated  and  standing  some  fifteen  or  twenty  men, 
watching  eagerly  the  rattling  of  the  dice,  and  chaffer- 


112  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

ing  for  the  chances,  as  each  one  made  his  throw.  The 
most  conspicuous  personage  in  the  room,  however,  was 
a  large,  fine-looking  woman,  of  twentj-five  or  thirty, 
with  a  fair  skin  and  a  grass-green  dress.  Her  round, 
fat  arm  was  bare  to  the  shoulder,  and  her  boddice  was 
strained  almost  to  bursting.  That  is  "  Miss  Catharine  " 
— whether  she  has,  or  ought  to  have,  any  other  name, 
is  none  of  our  business.  She  is  the  mistress  of  the 
establishment,  and  always  has  a  "chance"  in  every 
raffle.  Lucky  do  the  two  individuals  consider  them- 
selves, between  whose  shoulders  that  arm  is  inserted, 
for  the  purpose  of  rattling  the  dice.  She  is  generally 
very  lucky;  but  to-night  she  does  not  win.  The  prize 
is  finally  carried  ofi"  by  another. 

Well,  where  next?  The  night  wanes,  and  we  have 
hardly  begun  to  have  our  "fun"  yet!  One  proposes 
the  gambling-house;  another,  another  place,  which 
need  not  be  more  especially  mentioned ;  a  third,  the 
dance-house.  But  the  point  is  finally  settled  by  In- 
graham,  in  favour  of  the  gambling-house,  for  which 
the  dice  have  put  him  exactly  in  humour.  So,  down 
stairs  again — another  drink — and  away  up  Chestnut 
street,  to  the  well-known  ca^-e  of  "the  Ticjer." 

Gambling  may  be  considered  a  national  vice  in 
America,  and  Philadelphia  has  her  full  share  of  the 
practice.  From  the  speculator  in  copper  stock,  roam- 
ing up  and  down  the  "coast,"  seeking  whom  he  may 
devour,  to  the  little  niggers  of  St.  Mary  street,  pitch- 
ing pennies  on  the  sidewalk  for  ground-nuts,  a  uni- 
versal spirit  of  gambling  pervades  the  city.     Private 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  113 

houses,  among  the  middle  class,  are  very  frequently 
furnished  with  a  card-room,  where  the  members  of  the 
family,  with  some  unfortunate  young  man  whom  they 
have  "roped  in"  for  the  occasion,  spend  the  night  at 
"fip  poker."  In  this  employment  perhaps  one  half 
our  hard-working  young  men  spend  the  hours  that 
ought  to  be  devoted  to  sleep, — and  thus  go  forth  to 
their  daily  occupations,  weary,  stupid,  ill-natured,  and 
totally  unfitted  for  the  active  duties  of  life. 

But  our  fast  men  are  not  bound  on  any  such  enter- 
prise. Their  goal  is  the  veritable  cage  of  "  the  Tiger," 
whose  claws  scratch  wide  and  deep,  and  who,  until 
scourged  into  darkness  by  the  bold  hand  of  the  fearless 
magistrate — to  whom  be  all  praise  and  honour — was 
almost  as  public  as  the  drinking-house,  or  the  dry-goods 
shop.  The  tiger,  however,  is  not  at  all  an  ostentatious 
animal.  He  cherishes  his  beautiful  and  fascinating 
black  and  red  spots,  and  grows  fat  and  sleek,  in  a 
plain,  modest  brick  house.  The  door  steps  are  of  white 
marble — looking  like  all  Philadelphia  door-steps,  as  if 
they  had  been  cut  off  from  a  whole  piece  of  door-step, 
which  sold  at  retail,  at  so  much  a  yard. 

They  ring — and  a  well  dressed  mulatto,  with  the 
kinks  of  his  hair  redolent  with  cologne  and  attar  of 
roses,  opens  the  door,  and  politely  inquires  their  busi- 
ness. Recognising  "massa  Ingraham,"  however,  the 
party  is  ushered  up  stairs.  In  the  front  room  is  laid 
a  superb  supper,  garnished  with  various  kinds  of  wine 
and  liquors,  and  continually  replenished  with  wood 
10* 


114  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

cock,  quails,  partridges,  and  other  "delicacies  of  the 
season,"  which  are  served  to  every  person  as  he  seats 
himself  at  the  table,  Avithout  ceremony,  or  reference  to 
others.  Every  thing,  including  wines  and  liquors — 
champagne,  when  called  for — is  free.  The  Tiger  keeps 
open  house,  and  practises  a  liberal  hospitality — to  his 
victims. 

y  Of  course,  our  friends  are  at  home  here.  They  take 
their  seats  at  the  table — take  a  drink  all  round  to  com- 
mence with,  and  then  fall  gravely  to  supper,  as  if  they 
had  eaten  nothing  for  twenty-foui'  hours.  Then — hey 
for  the  back  parlour !  with  the  long  table  covered  with 
black  cloth,  on  which  are  painted  the  thirteen  cards 
of  a  suit,  and  at  one  side  of  which,  in  the  centre,  sits 
a  slim,  pale,  genteel-looking  young  man,  with  a  thou- 
sand dollar  diamond  pin  in  his  shirt,  and  a  ruby  ring 
as  big  as  a  bird's  egg,  on  his  little  finger.  In  his 
hands  he  holds  a  silver  music  box — but  the  music  it 
makes  is  very  monotonous,  and  sometimes  not  very 
pleasant  to  a  portion  of  the  audience. 

"  Gentlemen,  make  yoiu' bets  !  Are  you  done?  Seven 
— queen!"  that  is  all  that  you  hear,  except,  before 
every  repetition  of  the  tune,  the  rattling  of  some  white 
and  red  buttons,  distributed  about  on  the  various  cards, 
and  piled  up  in  front  of  the  players  and  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  dealer. 

This  is  the  Tiger — here  his  inner  cage,  where  the 
dainty  animal  takes  his  food ! 

Ingraham  had  no  taste  for  gambling,  and  seldom 
indulged  in  it  beyond  a  few  checks,  just  enough,  as 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  115 

he  said,  to  pay  for  his  supper.  As  to  his  companions, 
they  had  ah-eady  paid  their  respects  to  the  Tiger  too 
often.  The  affectionate  creature  had  hugged  them  so 
closely  that  they  had  not  a  dollar  in  their  pockets. 

So — now  to  the  dance-house !  There  is  yet  time, 
and  the  wood  cock  and  champagne  have  put  our  heroes 
up  to  any  thing.  Down  through  the  streets,  past  the 
squares,  the  elegant  houses — till  the  streets  grow  dim- 
mer and  darker,  the  gas-lights  are  exchanged  for  feebly 
glimmering  lamps,  and  there  is  a  suspicious  and  brood- 
ing silence  all  round,  that  makes  them  start  at  the  sound 
of  their  own  footsteps. 

The  dance-house  is  the  lowest  form  in  which  that 
universal  passion  for  jumping  up  and  down  to  music, 
so  characteristic  of  human  nature,  has  ever  developed 
itself.  In  the  orgy  which  goes  on  there,  every  con- 
ceivable base  and  degraded  sentiment  and  appetite  of 
man  and  woman  is  combined.  On  the  part  of  the 
men,  first  stupified  with  poisoned  liquor,  they  are  lured 
to  these  places  by  the  merest  beastly,  physical  lust, 
which  they  are  determined  to  gratify  at  any  risk,  or 
any  expense.  And  the  women,  knowing  this  fact,  play 
upon  this  horrible  and  depraved  appetite,  to  lead  their 
victims  on,  step  by  step,  to  drunken  insensibility,  and 
then  to  rob  them.  Th^l5:^pers  of  these  places  of 
course  share  the  spoil,  %tid  run  the  risk  of  the  law. 
This  is  the  whole  philosophy  of  the  dance-house. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  establishments  that  our  party 
now  arrived.  Going  up  a  dark  alley,  they  pushed  open 
the  back  door,  and  at  once  found  themselves  in  the 


116  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

temple  of  Terpsichore.  Seated  on  wooden  benches, 
on  either  side  of  the  room,  were  various  couples,  in 
attitudes  which  do  not  need  to  be  particularly  described. 
Some  of  the  females  were  bright  yellow,  some  brown, 
some  white,  and  some  jet  black.  They  were  shockingly 
indecently  dressed,  and  were  exerting  all  their  fasci- 
nations upon  the  half  drunken  sailors,  Californians, 
country  green-horns,  and  what  not,  whom  each  held 
tightly  with  one  arm  round  the  neck,  while  with  the 
other  hand  she  fumbled  at  his  pockets. 

Here,  too,  Ingraham  and  his  party  seemed  to  be 
well  known,  as  their  entrance  created  no  surprise,  and 
they  passed  unmolested  into  the  front  room,  where  the 
old  black  fiddler  had  just  struck  up  a  lively  quadrille. 
He  was  seated  on  a  barrel,  at  the  end  of  the  rickety 
old  counter,  behind  which  stood  a  fat,  blear-eyed, 
bloated  old  hag,  dealing  out  the  "stuff,"  at  a  fip  a  nip 
— besides  a  levy  every  round  for  the  dance. 

"How  are  ye,  old  mother  Cockalorum!"  shouted 
Ingraham,  who  was  evidently  quite  as  much  at  home 
here,  as  he  had  found  himself  in  all  the  other  haunts 
of  the  evening.  "What's  going  on?  Shall  we  join 
your  party,  eh?  " 

"Would  the  gentlemen  take  a  turn  on  the  flure?" 
inquired  the  old  hag,  potir^g  to  the  dancers.  But 
there  seemed  nothing  very  attractive  there.  The 
"flure  "  was  occupied  by  a  dubious  collection  of  rowdy 
"killers,"  drunken  sailors,  and  loafers,  generally,  with 
women  to  match.  Some  of  the  young  rowdies  were 
the  "beaux  "  of  the  ladies,  and  were,  as  usual,  allowed 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  117 

to  ^'mix  in  "  with  the  dancers,  waiting  for  fresh  victims 
to  come  and  take  their  places.  As  fast  as  this  hap- 
pened, they  obediently  got  out  of  the  way,  took  a  tre- 
mendous dram  of  poisoned  whisky  at  the  bar,  and 
started  out  to  get  up  a  fight  or  a  fire — only  too  happy 
if  it  should  happen  to  be  both. 

The  quadrille  being  now  finished,  a  general  stand  up 
all  round  was  proposed  by  Ingraham  and  his  friends, 
who  seized  the  girls  and  began  to  take  their  places. 
Some  resistance,  however,  was  shown  by  two  or  three 
of  the  ladies'  former  partners,  which  was  speedily  mol- 
lified by  the  landlady,  who  beckoned  the  malcontents 
to  the  counter,  poured  them  out  a  glass  apiece,  and 
thus  harmony  was  restored,  while  the  gentlemen  "had 
their  little  bit  of  a  frolic  just." 

It  was  now  long  after  midnight,  and  our  fast  men 
began  to  feel  rather  slow.     Some  complained  of  the 

"d d  bad  brandy"  that  had  made  them  sick  at 

the  stomach — another  acknowledged  to  a  terrible  head- 
ache, and  thought  he  must  go  home  and  have  a  good 
sleep ;  while  another  hiccupping  the  time  to  his  own 
music;  as  the  whole  party  emerged  into  the  street, 
began  singing  that  elegant  and  classical  song,  supposed 
to  have  been  handed  down  from  the  feasts  of  Bacchus 
at  Corinth,  commencing — and  ending — with, 

"We  won't  go — hie — home  till  morn — Mc — ing, 
Till  daylight  doth  ap — hk — pear!" 

They  thus  reeled  and  staggered  their  way  along,  till 
seeing  a  gleam  of  light  streaming  out  from  a  little 


118  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

cellar  in  the  neigliboui-hood  of  Musical  Fund  Hall, 
they  literally  tumbled  down  the  narrow  and  slimy 
stairs — narrowly  escaped  being  brought  up  again  in  a 
tub  of  oyster-shells,  borne  by  a  couple  of  naked-armed 
Germans — took  a  parting  drink — and  each  went  on  his 
separate  way  rejoicing — promising  to  meet  the  next 
day  at  the  old  rendezvous,  and  have  some  more  ''fun 
of  the  same  kind." 

There,  reader — thank  Heaven  with  me,  that  this 
chapter  is  over !  It  is  altogether  too  true,  too  disgust- 
ing in  its  details — and  too  humiliating  to  human  na- 
ture, to  inspire  either  author  or  reader  with  anything 
but  unmitigated  horror.  Yet,  without  it,  you  would 
have  known  nothing  of  our  Philadelphia  fast  man — for 
amid  these  scenes  is  passed  his  outward  and  visible 
existence. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  119 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE  HAREMS  OF  CIVILIZATION. 

The  Wilmars,  notwithstanding  their  industry,  their 
economy  and  their  devotion — which  all  the  newspapers 
are  cautiously  repeating  to  us,  as  the  sure  means  of 
prosperity  and  wealth — had  a  hard  struggle.  Although, 
through  Arthur's  success  as  a  teacher,  they  managed 
to  escape  absolute  want,  yet  many  and  severe  were 
the  privations  to  which  they  were  exposed,  and  many 
the  moments  of  discouragement  and  almost  of  despair. 
Their  mother  continued  nearly  in  the  same  condition, 
apparently  sinking  from  month  to  month,  yet  still 
living  on  miserably  and  hopelessly.  She  now  required 
more  attention  and  nursing  than  ever ;  and  between 
the  duties  of  housekeeping,  and  the  attendance  upon 
their  mother,  the  time  of  the  daughters  was  almost 
entirely  consumed — so  that  they  could  add  little  or 
nothing  to  their  brother's  earnings.  Besides,  since 
the  death  of  Mr.  "VVilmar,  and  the  brutal  abandonment 
of  Edward  Ingraham,  Helen  had  never  recovered  her 
spirits  or  her  health.  Though  she  never  complained, 
and  was  as  gentle  and  kind-hearted  as  ever,  yet  she 


120  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

paled  day  by  day,  and  it  was  evident  to  her  brother 
and  sisters  that  the  light  of  her  life  was  gone.  At 
first  they  naturally  attributed  the  change  in  her  man- 
ner and  appearance  to  the  moral  suflfering  which  they 
knew  she  had  experienced  in  her  wounded  and  crushed 
affections — and  they  hoped  that  time  would  sooth  and 
restore  her. 

But  the  gentle  and  affectionate  girl  had  a  far  deeper 
nature  than  they  suspected.  The  blow  she  had  re- 
ceived was  a  vital  one,  and  attacked  the  very  sources 
of  life.  Month  after  month  wore  on,  and  brought  not 
back  the  light  to  her  eye,  or  the  bloom  to  her  cheek. 
Day  by  day  her  strength  wasted  away,  and  her  round 
elastic  frame  grew  thin  and  emaciated.  She  was  far 
more  beautiful  than  her  sisters,  and  had,  from  child- 
hood, been  their  pet  and  darling — every  caprice  hu- 
moured, every  fancy  indulged ;  while  she  repaid  their 
loving  care  with  the  joyous  outpoui^ings  of  her  brilliant 
and  susceptible  nature.  But  now  the  music  of  her 
voice  was  gone — her  eyes  no  more  sparkled  with  gayety 
and  animation — her  step  grew  faint  and  languid — and 
she  smiled  feebly  and  sadly  at  the  words  of  encourage- 
ment and  hope  which  they  offered  her,  and  the  atten- 
tions they  lavished  upon  her. 

Still,  she  was  beautiful — perhaps  even  more  beautiful 
than  she  had  ever  been  in  the  full  glow  of  health,  and 
hope,  and  happiness.  Her  glance  had  a  tender  and 
almost  divine  light — her  pale  transparent  cheek,  over 
which  the  blood  mantled  in  crimson  shadows  at  the 
slightest  emotions,  spoke  of  ineffable  depths  of  feeling 


OTTR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  121 

and  passion — and  her  voice  had  acquired  a  low  and 
thrilling  power,  that  moved  the  soul  of  the  listener  to 
its  inmost  depths.  The  good  doctor  Felton,  who  con- 
tinued the  unremitting  kindness  of  his  attentions  to 
the  whole  family,  would  often  sit  for  a  long  time  gazing 
anxiously  upon  that  now  spiritual  face,  as  if  striving 
to  penetrate  the  secret  of  her  ailing,  and  to  discover 
the  means  of  relief.  Of  course  he  knew  that  the  en- 
gagement between  Edward  Ingraham  and  herself  was 
broken  off;  and  he  frequently,  at  first,  congratulated 
her,  playfully,  upon  having  so  soon  found  out  the 
worthlessness  of  her  lover,  and  thus  escaped  a  life  of 
misery.  But  his  practical  experience  of  every  day 
life  and  real  physical  suffering,  prevented  him  from 
seeing  or  understanding  that  the  strange  phenomenon 
of  a  cureless  inward  sorrow  and  a  broken  heart,  was 
daily  enacting  beneath  his  eyes.  Physicians — even 
the  best  of  them — come,  in  the  course  of  their  expe- 
riences among  tangible  ailments,  to  disbelieve  in  the  in- 
curable sufferings  of  the  heart ;  and  although  he  sym- 
pathized deeply  with  the  slight  and  insult  which  poor 
Helen  had  endured,  he  never  dreamed  of  attributing 
to  that,  the  gradual  yet  certain  undermining  of  her 
health,  which  now  began  seriously  to  alarm  his  friendly 
fears.  Still  she  bore  up  resolutely ;  and  to  all  the  in- 
quiries of  the  doctor  and  the  family,  she  answered, 
with  a  smile,  that  she  should  soon  be  well — quite  well. 
They  had  no  society.  Quietly  dropped  by  all  their 
former  acquaintances — ignored  by  the  brilliant  circle 
in  which  they  had  moved,  as  completely  as  though  they 
11 


122  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

had  never  existed — tliey  liad  neither  time  nor  inclina- 
tion to  make  new  friends,  or  to  form  new  associations. 
But,  since  Mr.  Henderson's  visit,  announcing  tlie  loss 
of  their  fortune,  that  gentleman  had  frequently  come 
to  see  them.  At  first  it  was  natural  and  even  neces- 
sary, in  the  discharge  of  his  duties  as  their  father's 
executor,  that  he  should  to  some  extent  superintend 
their  movements,  and  offer  his  counsel  and  guidance, 
in  the  new  and  thorny  path  upon  which  they  were 
setting  out.  On  these  occasions,  he  seemed  to  display 
unwonted  feeling,  and  to  unbend  from  his  usual  cold- 
ness and  severity.  He  even  condescended  to  interest 
himself  directly  in  their  movements — sent  Arthur  to 
a  house-agent  with  whom  he  was  acquainted — and  ac- 
tually became  security  for  the  rent  of  the  new  and 
humble  home,  which  was  finally  selected  to  receive  the 
unhappy  family.  This — together  with  the  extraordi- 
nary generosity  he  had  displayed  in  appointing  Arthur 
as  the  maestro  of  his  daughter — formed  the  key-note 
of  a  perfect  anthem  of  praises  of  his  charity  and  be- 
nevolence, which  was  chanted  throughout  the  houses 
of  his  sect,  and  commented  upon,  even  by  the  profane 
world,  as  an  incredible  stretch  of  quaker  generosity. 
Oh,  silly  world !  and  ye,  oh  misjudging  brethren  of 
the  inner  light!  do  not  the  worthy  and  faithful  dis- 
ciple of  George  Fox  and  William  Penn  such  gross  in- 
justice !  He  was  still  true  to  his  principles  ;  and  if  he 
came,  oftener  than  it  was  necessary,  to  the  humble 
home  into  which  he  had  driven  his  hapless  victims — 
if  he  sat  sometimes  late  into  the  evening,  on  his  way 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  128 

from  tlie  store  to  his  magnificent  home,  conversing 
in  edifying  language  with  the  daughter  of  his  dead 
friend — he  had,  as  ever,  a  motive  for  all. 

After  what  we  have  already  disclosed  of  the  inward 
nature  and  character  of  this  man,  we  surely  need  not 
add  that  among  his  most  actively  developed  virtues, 
w^as  that  of  hypocrisy ;  and  that  beneath  that  withered 
and  icy  exterior,  there  dwelt  a  subdued  volcano  of 
passions — passions  long  subdued  and  forced  under  the 
most  complete  control,  but  which  were  not  extinguished, 
and  w^hich  might,  at  any  hour,  burst  forth  in  streams 
of  burning  lava,  whelming  and  destroying  all  around. 
Such  an  outbreak  now  threatened  in  the  bosom  of 
this  man,  so  long  disciplined  to  external  peace  and 
calm. 

The  strongest  passion  of  man's  nature  is  the  love 
of  women.  In  proportion  as  the  innumerable  instincts 
of  the  organization  are  repressed  or  smothered,  they 
add  their  pent-up  forces  to  this  one  absorbing  passion, 
which  cannot  be  controlled,  and  will  have  vent  some- 
where. Either  instinct  or  study  had  taught  Mr.  Hen- 
derson this  great  physiological  as  well  as  metaphysical 
truth ;  and  consequently,  he  had,  early  in  life,  made 
systematic  arrangements  for  providing  for  this  impe- 
rious law  of  his  nature,  and  thus  escaping  the  effects 
of  the  explosion  which  otherwise  must  one  day  hap- 
pen. 

Society,  with  all  its  grand  pretensions,  teaches 
thoroughly  but  one  lesson  to  her  subjects — duplicity. 
The  sum  of  that  ''practical  education,"  so  blindly 


124  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

vaunted  hj  all,  is,  not  to  purify  tlic  licart  or  the  con- 
duct,— but  to  seem  to  do  so:  to  live,  in  short,  a 
double  life — one  for  society,  and  one  for  yourself  and 
your  own  world  of  appetites  and  desires.  All  that 
the  world  requires,  either  in  religion  or  morals,  is  con- 
formity, not  belief;  propriety,  not  purit}^  Let  a  man 
pay  his  debts  punctually,  and  he  may  obtain  the 
money  to  do  so  by  what  devices  of  extortion,  imposi- 
tion or  deception,  he  pleases — he  will  stand  well  with 
the  world,  and  every  one  will  endorse  him,  and  give 
him  an  unimpeachable  character — though  they  may 
hioza  of  his  hard-heartedness,  his  extortion,  his  over- 
reaching, his  actual  dishonesty.  Let  him  fulfil  all  his 
conventional  obligations — support  his  family,  pay  his 
rent,  appear  at  church  or  theatre  with  his  wife  and 
daughters — dine  at  home  at  Sundays,  and  exchange 
merely  the  ordinary  forms  of  civility  with  other  wo- 
men— and  he  will  be  quoted  and  pointed  at  as  a  model 
husband  and  father ;  though  every  man  and  woman 
of  his  acquaintance  is  aware  that  he  keeps  a  mistress, 
or  gambles  like  a  black-leg,  in  secret.  Whence  pro- 
ceeds this  universal  charity  among  men? — Simply 
from  men's  universal  need  of  its  exercise  towards 
themselves.  And  the  inflexible  severity  with  which 
the  world  punishes  and  pui'sues  those  who  overstep 
conventionality,  and  openly  violate  its  fomis — whence 
comes  that?  From  the  dread,  lest,  if  they  do  not 
disown  such  a  monster,  attention  will  be  awakened  to 
themselves  and  their  own  conduct,  and  then  the  whole 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  125 

miserable,  cowardly  lie,  upon  wliicli  society  is  con- 
ducted, laid  bare. 

There  are  two  classes  of  men  in  society — tbose  who 
learn  and  practise  this  great  lesson,  early,  and  those 
who  never  learn  it,  or  disdain  to  practise  it. 

Whoever  will  carefully  examine  the  creed  and  social 
theory  of  Mahomedanism,  as  developed  and  explained 
by  Gibbon,  that  great  ^'philosopher  teaching  by  ex- 
ample," will  be  startled  at  recognising,  in  that  w^on- 
derful  creed,  the  exact  worldly  antithesis  of  the  pure 
doctrines  of  Christianity.  Mahomet  was  the  mock 
Christ,  as  civilization  is  the  mock  Christianity.  Fa- 
naticism, asceticism,  skepticism,  bigotry  and  hypocrisy, 
are  the  fundamental  'principles  of  Islamism — they  are 
only  the  secret  practice  of  civilization.  And  they  who 
will  peruse,  with  this  key  to  its  real  meaning,  that 
searching  and  sublime  criticism  on  the  unrecognised 
crimes  of  society — the  Revolt  of  Islam — will  no  longer 
be  at  a  loss  to  discover  its  real  meanings,  to  under- 
stand its  withering  denunciations  of  the  hypocrisy, 
selfishness  and  cruelty,  the  rapacity  and  licentiousness, 
of  the  world ;  nor  will  they  be  able  to  withhold  their 
tenderest  pity  for  the  noble,  child-like  and  innocent 
soul,  immolated  by  that  society  whose  inexorable 
creed  it  had  outraged,  but  which  was  still  pure  and 
truthful  to  Heaven  and  nature,  had  died  with  dismay 
at  the  atrocious  falsehoods  by  which  it  found  itself 
surrounded. 

Is  it  not  among  those  concealed  facts  whose  exis- 
tence, known  to  all,  is  resolutely  ignored  by  all,  that 


1'2G  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

the  legislatures  and  magistrates  wlio  pass  such  strin- 
gent laws  against  intemperance,  licentiousness  and 
gambling,  are  themselves  licentious,  gamblers  and  in- 
temperate? Is  not  this  every-day  phenomenon  the 
very  counterpart  of  the  life  and  character  of  the  Ma- 
hometans? The  Koran  proscribes  drunkenness  as  a 
mortal  offence — yet  the  Mahometans,  either  through 
the  open  use  of  opium,  or  the  secret  indulgence  of 
"wine,  are  a  nation  of  inebriates,  who  pass  their  lives 
in  the  fevered  dreams  and  imbecile  idiocy  of  intoxica- 
tion. The  Koran  punishes  fornication  and  adultery 
with  death  in  this  world,  and  eternal  damnation  in  the 
world  to  come — yet  Mahometanism  openly  permits 
polygamy,  and  the  harem,  which  is  a  universal  tolera- 
tion of  the  coarsest  and  most  disgusting  prostitution, 
adultery,  and  licentiousness. 

Civilization  effects  the  same  objects,  and  achieves 
the  same  end — but  in  all  decency  and  propriety. 
The  sanctimonious  face,  and  the  green  veil  of  civiliza- 
tion, do  for  our  men  and  women,  what  the  Koran  and 
exemption  of  the  true  believers,  accomplish  for  the 
faithful  followers  of  the  Prophet. 

Let  us  now  join  our  worthy  and  most  respectable 
acquaintance,  Ira  Henderson,  the  great  merchant,  the 
honest  man,  the  representative  of  the  highest  power 
of  society,  and  pay  a  visit  to  one  of  the  harems  of 
civilization. 

He  wears  the  same  long,  shapeless  coat,  assumed  as 
the  cloak  of  Jesuitism — which  may  be  called  quaker- 
ism  in    another   form — the    same    immaculate    white 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  127 

neckcloth  and  sanctimonious  face — in  which  we  have 
heretofore  beheld  him.  His  pace  is  shambling  and 
awkward,  and  his  glance  is  meek  and  humble,  as  he 
encounters  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  "world's 
people,"  who  pity  him  for  his  self-denial  of  all  the 
amenities  and  enjoyments  of  life — and  whom  he  in 
his  turn  despises,  as  children,  who  carry  openly  in 
their  hands  the  sweet-meats  which  every  hungry  beggar 
may  snatch  from  them. 

On  he  goes,  up  the  wide  and  well-washed  walk  of 
that  smooth-faced,  drab-coated  and  broad-brimmed 
avenue,  which  is  the  symbol,  in  brick  and  mortar,  of 
those  w^ho  built  it,  and  who  still  inhabit  it.  The 
clumsy  and  ungraceful  forms  of  the  buildings — the 
ostentatious  ugliness  of  the  door-steps  and  porticoes — 
the  shambling,  wooden  window-shutters — are  but  the 
shapeless  coats  and  trowsers,  the  protruding,  eave-like 
hats,  and  the  studiously  uncouth  gait  of  their  owners. 

But,  before  he  has  proceeded  far  up  this  wide 
thoroughfare,  our  respectable  merchant  takes  a  little 
street  to  the  right,  and  again  turning  into  another, 
that  runs  parallel  with  the  great  one  he  has  left,  he 
cautiously  pursues  his  way. 

The  very  route  he  has  chosen,  is  indicative  of  his 
present  purpose — which  is  also  one  of  those  foul  and 
narrow  private  ways  that  run  parallel  to  the  good 
man's  public  walk  and  conversation.  Ah,  these  by- 
ways and  obscure  alleys  of  our  moral  and  Christian 
cities !  To  those  who  know  where  they  lead,  and  who 
walk  in  them,  they  are  full  of  meaning. 

The  good  man  at  length  stops  at  a  modest  little 


128  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

house,  whose  lower  shutters  are  closed,  whose  door-step 
gleams  with  cleanliness,  whose  narrow  bit  of  side-walk 
has  been  scrubbed  and  scoured  down  to  its  red  and 
raw  integuments.  He  takes  a  bright  little  yellow  latch 
key  from  an  inside  pocket,  and  enters.  It  is  very  in- 
discreet, we  know — very  improper — thus  to  violate  the 
impenetrable  veil  of  the  harem ;  but  we,  too,  have  our 
disguise — and  we  must  enter  with  him. 

He  does  not  stop  to  look  in  at  the  little  parlour,  now 
so  carefully  darkened  by  the  closed  shutters ;  but  takes 
his  way  up  stairs,  and  knocks  at  the  door  of  the  front 
chamber. 

"Come  in." 

A  woman  is  seated  in  a  comfortable  arm  chair,  en- 
gaged in  sewing.  She  lays  down  her  work,  rises,  and 
respectfully  brings  forward  another  chair  for  her  guest. 
She  has  evidently  been  expecting  him. 

"How  is  my  friend  to-day?  I  hope  he  is  well," 
she  says,  in  a  low  deferential  tone. 

"Well,  I  thank  thee,  sister  Catherine;  very  well. 
And  how  does  thee  prosper  ?  Has  thee  thought  of  the 
matter  I  spoke  to  thee  of  when  I  saw  thee  last  ?  Has 
thee  composed  any  dainty  female  device,  such  as  will 
advance  our  purpose?" 

"Yes.  I  must  myself  visit  the  young  lady.  I  am 
a  lone  widow,  who  engages  in  works  of  charity,  and 
has  need  of  assistance  in  sewing,  and  preparing  suitable 
garments  for  the  children  of  the  poor  families  under 
my  charge.  I  have  heard,  through  a  friend,  of  the 
family  of  Wilmar — how  industrious  and  good  they  are 
« — how  they  strive  to  take  care  of  their  DOor  sick  mo- 


OUR  FIHST  FAxMILIES.  129 

tlier;  and  I  can  put  some  light  and  profitable  employ- 
ment in  the  way  of  the  daughters.  If  the  young  lady 
will  come  to  my  house,  I  will  provide  her  with  the 
work,  and  give  her  the  necessary  instructions." 

"Good!" 

"  You  see  I  have  always  ready  the  necessary  habili- 
ments for  my  visit.  Does  the  plan  please  you?"  and 
she  pointed,  with  a  smile,  to  her  slate-coloured,  straight- 
skirted  dress,  to  a  narrow  white  muslin  shawl  that 
covered  her  shoulders,  and  to  a  bonnet  of  the  same 
colour  as  her  dress,  lying  on  the  bed. 

"  It  is  admirable,  Catherine — it  could  not  be  better. 
When  will  thee  make  thy  essay?  " 

"  To-day,  if  it  please  you.  I  have  always  time  to 
attend  to  the  wishes  of  my  kind  patron." 

''  Thee  is  an  excellent  woman,  Catherine,  and  I  do 
believe,  a  faithful — especially,  as  I  make  it  always  to 
thine  own  interest  to  serve  me  well  and  truly.  When, 
think  thee,  that  I  may  expect  to  meet  the  beautiful 
Helen  beneath  thy  friendly  roof?  " 

"  This  night,  I  think  and  hope.  I  shall  request  her 
to  be  punctual.  But  should  I  not  succeed,  I  will  pass 
through  the  store,  as  if  to  make  some  purchases,  at 
four  o'clock.  If  you  do  not  see  me  at  that  time,  you 
may  suppose  that  I  have  succeeded  in  decoying  the 
young  girl  to  my  house." 

"It  is  well.     Does  thee  need  anything  to-day?" 

"No — I  have  money  enough  for  the  present." 

"When  thee  needs,  speak  frankly.  I  have  ever 
found  thee  reasonable." 


130  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

^'And  faithful  to  your  interests,  as  I  have  promised." 

"Does  thee  sometimes,  Catherine,  regret  our  con- 
tract?" 

"Perhaps:  but  I  never  Tvish  to  break  it.  I  have 
chosen  my  -way  of  life.  The  past  has  no  pleasant 
memories — the  future  no  hopes.  I  am  contented  to 
remain  that  T\-hich  I  am — that  v,hlch  you  have  made 
me." 

"  Thee  is  a  most  sensible  woman,  Catherine — most 
sensible.  The  proud  dames  of  the  world  are  no  better 
than  thee — their  lives  are  not  so  peaceful.  I  will  re- 
turn to-night :  and  I  must  now  go  to  take  the  neces- 
sary precautions,  that  my  absence  may  be  accounted 
for." 

The  vroman  rose,  and  attended  her  visiter  to  the 
door,  and  would  have  even  gone  with  him  down  stairs 
— but  he  motioned  her  back ;  and  going  down  softly, 
passed  out  of  the  house,  took  his  way  directly  to  Arch 
street,  and  so  returned  to  his  counting-house. 

In  a  few  minutes  after  he  had  entered,  a  clerk  came 
in  to  the  private  office  where  he  was  usually  seated, 
during  business  hours,  and  handed  him  a  telegraphic 
despatch.  He  opened  it,  glanced  over  its  contents,  and 
handed  it  back. 

"File  away  the  despatch  among  thy  daily  memo- 
randums, friend  John,"  said  he;  "and  presently  bring 
me  a  duplicate  of  the  account  of  our  correspondent, 
Ellis  Harmer,  at  Trenton.  I  must  proceed  thither  to- 
night, as  thee  sees  by  the  despatch,  to  settle  that  long 
outstanding  matter.     I  shall  return  to-morro\Y»" 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  131 

Mean^vliile,  sister  Catherine,  as  she  had  been  desig- 
nated by  her  visiter,  put  on  her  bonnet,  wrapped  a 
plain  drab-coloured  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  smoothed 
her  hair  over  her  temples,  and  prepared  to  set  out  on 
her  expedition.  As  she  went  down  stairs,  a  young 
girl,  of -apparently  sixteen,  leaned  over  the  balustrade 
of  the  room  above,  and  spoke  to  her. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Anthony,"  said  the  lovely 
face,  in  a  sweet  voice,  and  with  a  slight  accent,  which 
the  practised  ear  would  have  recognised  immediately 
as  belonging  only  to  French  lips.  "Are  you  going 
out  so  early?     Can  I  not  go  with  you?  " 

"No,  my  child,  not  to-day:  I  am  going  to  make 
some  charitable  calls,  and  shall  come  back  to  dinner." 

"Well,  then,"  replied  the  voice,  in  a  pretty,  childish 
tone  of  disappointment;  "will  you  take  this  note  for 
Edward  to  the  despatch  post  ?  I  have  not  seen  him 
for  two  whole  days.  I  fear  he  is  ill."  And  running 
lightly  down  stairs,  she  put  her  little  note  into  Mrs. 
Anthony's  hands. 

It  was  directed  to  "Edward  Brown,  Esquire,  Blood's 
Despatch.     To  be  called  for." 

"Don't  forget,  my  dear  Mrs.  Anthony,"  said  the 
girl.  "  Edward  assures  me  that  he  goes  or  sends  every 
day  to  the  despatch  office ;  and  I  w\ant  to  see  him  very 
much.     It  is  so  lonely  without  him  !  " 

"I  shall  be  sure  not  to  forget,  my  dear  Kosalie," 
said  Mrs.  Anthony,  looking  at  the  note,  and  putting 
it  in  her  pocket.  "Do  I  ever  forget  anything  you 
want  ? ' 


132  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"  Oh,  never,  never !  "  cried  the  girl ;  ''  jon  are  always 
kind.  But  I  do  want  to  see  Edward  so  much !  If  he 
does  not  come  this  evening,  I  shall  be  very,  very  un- 
happy." 

"  Good  morning,  my  dear — don't  mope  and  make 
yourself  ill.  You  must  look  your  best,  you  know,  when 
Edward  comes." 

Rosalie,  blushing,  returned  to  her  room,  and  Mrs. 
Anthony  went  out  to  execute  her  mission  of  charity. 

Her  visit  to  the  Wilmars  was  well  timed.  After 
paying  their  quarter's  rent,  which  had  just  fallen  due, 
and  settling  the  little  bill  at  the  grocer's,  they  found 
themselves  literally  at  the  end  of  their  resources. 
Two  or  three  of  Arthur's  wealthy  patrons,  whose 
quarter's  bills  for  teaching  were  now  some  time  over- 
due, had  still  forgotten  or  neglectc<J  to  make  payment 
— and  Arthur  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  of  the 
subject.  Oh,  if  the  rich  knew  how  much  actual  suf- 
fering to  the  poor  whom  they  employ,  they  might  al- 
leviate, by  prompt!?/  paying  them  their  pittance,  when 
it  was  earned,  I  am  sure  they  would  not  be  so  incon- 
siderate and  thoughtless  as  they  too  often  are.  Sui'- 
rounded  by  every  comfort,  every  luxury,  and  never 
feeling  the  want  of  money,  they  are  far  from  under- 
standing the  imperious  need  of  every  dollar  which  the 
poor  man  earns.  lie  lives  from  day  to  day — he  has 
no  credit,  beyond  the  quick-coming  Saturday-night, 
with  the  grocer,  the  butcher,  the  baker  and  the  milk- 
man. He  must  pay  as  he  goes,  or  he  and  his  family 
must  go  destitute.     Hundreds  of  families  pass  a  cold 


OUR    FIRST   FAMILIES.  133 

and  hungry  Sabbath  from  the  neglect  of  their  rich 
employers  to  pay  them  what  they  have  toiled  early 
and  late,  through  the  dismal  week,  to  earn.  Many  a 
poor,  pale,  emaciated  seamstress,  after  working  all 
night  to  complete  her  task,  on  the  payment  of  which 
she  depends  for  present  fire,  food  and  light,  turns 
away  despairing  and  heart-broken  from  her  wealthy 
employer's  door,  at  the  cruel  phrase,  "  Call  again  in  a 
few  days — I  have  no  money  now !"  And  while  she 
returns  disconsolately  to  her  miserable  home,  knowing 
not  where  to  get  the  bread  for  her  children,  or  fire  to 
warm  their  feeble  frames,  the  rich  lady  who  ^'  has  no 
money  now,"  steps  into  her  carriage,  or  promenades 
the  fashionable  walk,  stopping  at  every  shop,  and 
spending  for  useless  luxuries,  enough  to  have  gladdened 
the  heart  and  hearth  of  her  poor  seamstress  for  a 
twelvemonth.  Ye  rich  and  prosperous,  remember 
this;  and  at  least  observe  toward  your  poor  and 
humble  creditors  that  punctuality  which  all  so  rigidly 
exact  from  them ! 

It  was  the  day  of  the  matinle  musicale.  Arthur 
had  been  up  nearly  the  whole  night  practising  the 
solos  he  was  going  to  play  at  the  concert — conscious 
bow  important  it  was  for  him  to  make  a  favorable 
impression  upon  the  brilliant  audience  who  were  to 
listen  to  him — and  stimulated,  too,  by  another  motive, 
which  the  young  reader  will  divine,  and  which  it  is 
not  at  all  necessary  that  the  old  ones  should  under- 
stand. Still,  it  was  with  an  anxious  brow,  and  a  heavy 
heart,  that  he  had  gone  forth  in  the  morning,  to  give 
12 


13J:  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

his  usual  lessons.  They  were  literally  reduced  to 
their  last  resources.  The  breakfast  had  been  a  scanty 
one,  and  the  dinner  promised  to  be  still  more  meager, 
unless  some  of  his  patrons  should  happily  remember 
to  discharge  their  debt  to  him,  and  thus  replenish  the 
exhausted  family  treasury.  No  such  good  fortune  hap- 
pened— as  it  never  does  happen  at  the  time  it  is  most 
needed.  Sad  and  disheartened,  he  left  the  door  of  his 
last  pupil,  and  at  length  resolved  to  call  upon  Mr.  Hen- 
derson— Tvho  was  among  his  list  of  delinquent  patrons 
— and  ask  him  for  a  small  supply  of  money  for  his  im- 
mediate wants.  He  went  to  the  store,  and,  on  inquiring 
for  Mr.  Henderson,  was  told  that,  being  obliged  to 
leave  town  that  evening  on  important  business,  he 
could  see  no  one  till  the  next  day.  It  was  in  vain  that 
he  insisted — the  clerk,  who  was  civil  enough,  said  his 
orders  not  to  interrupt  Mr.  Henderson,  were  positive, 
and  even  declined  to  send  in  Wilmar's  name.  With 
a  pang  so  keen,  that  nothing  but  poverty  has  a  right 
to  inflict  it,  he  tui'ned  away,  and  slowly  walked  home- 
wards. 

To  go  through  the  crowded  streets,  full  of  people 
walking  briskly,  and  with  smiling  countenances — for 
to  the  desperate,  every  face  he  meets  seems  to  speak 
of  success  and  satisfaction,  and  to  mock  him  with  its 
gayety — and  to  feel  that  there  is  at  home  not  even  the 
means  of  providing  another  meal — that  the  loved  ones 
are  actually  in  want  of  bread,  and  that  they  will  try 
to  meet  him  with  cheerful  faces,  while  hunger  is  gnaw- 
ing them,  and  they  are  faint  from  want — this  is  po- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  135 

verty.  And  yet,  how  many  thousands  in  this  beauti- 
ful world,  thus  daily  walk  slowly  and  totteringly  to 
their  homes ! 

At  last,  he  came  to  his  humble  door.  He  had  no 
more  excuses  for  waiting — he  must  enter.  The  hour 
for  the  concert  was  hastening  on ;  and  he  must  go 
from  this  wretched  home  to  keep  his  appointment  with 
the  gay  and  joyous  world  of  luxury  and  revelry.  He 
must  hide  the  anguish  in  his  heart,  and  call  up  the 
inspirations  of  art  and  poetry,  to  inform  his  fingers, 
and  enable  him  to  minister  worthily  to  the  pampered 
tastes,  the  thoughtless  criticisms  of  the  brilliant  crowd. 
He  felt  as  if  he  must  sink  beneath  the  trial. 

But  he  found  a  ray  of  comfort  when  he  entered. 
A  plentiful  dinner  was  laid,  and  his  sister  Emma  met 
him  with  an  encouraging  smile. 

"How  have  you  done  this,  dear  sister? "  said  he,  in 
surprise.  "I  did  not  leave  you  even  a  shilling,  this 
morning.  I  have  brought  nothing.  Have  you  been 
running  into  debt?" 

"Oh,  no,  dear  brother — here  is  money  left,  you 
see.  A  kind  quaker  lady — the  president  of  friends' 
charitable  society — came  to  see  us,  and  has  taken 
Helen  away  with  her.  She  is  going  to  superintend 
some  needle-work  at  the  lady's  house,  and  will  here- 
after get  five  dollars  every  week  for  her  services. 
The  lady  insisted  upon  paying  a  week's  wages  in  ad- 
vance, and  upon  Helen  going  with  her  immediately. 
She  said  she  had  been  sent  by  a  friend,  whose  name 
she  did  not  tell,  as  she  said  the  friends  always  did 


ICO  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

their  charities  in  secret,  never  letting  the  left  hand 
know  what  the  right  is  doing.  But  I  think  it  was 
Dr.  Felton  who  told  her  about  us.  I  feared  poor 
Helen's  health,  and  would  have  gone  in  her  place. 
But  Helen  was  sure  that  the  employment  would  do 
her  good — and  the  lady  was  of  the  same  opinion :  and 
so  she  went.  She  is  to  be  sent  home  this  evening  in 
the  lady's  carriage." 

Relieved  of  a  heavy  load  of  care,  Arthur  did  not 
stop  to  discuss  the  prudence  of  letting  Helen  go  out 
alone  with  a  stranger.  Had  he  done  so,  he  could 
have  scarcely  objected  to  intrusting  her  to  a  respec- 
table quaker  lady,  who  had  been  so  kindly  conside- 
rate, and  who,  besides,  was  the  president  of  a  chari- 
table society!  So,  hastily  dining,  he  paid  his  cus- 
tomary visit  to  his  mother,  and  prepared  himself  for 
the  concert.  Sitting  down  at  his  piano  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  try  over. his  capriccio,  founded  upon  Ma- 
dame Pleyel's  nocturne,  which  he  had  improvised 
under  the  inspiration  of  Madame  de  Saintlieu's  eyes, 
and  since  written  out  and  committed  to  memory,  he 
found  that  power  and  expression  had  come  back  to  his 
weary  fingers.  Then,  kissing  Emma  and  Kate,  he  set 
out  for  Mrs.  Valentine's, — his  heart  beating  with  tu- 
multuous emotions,  which  he  doubtless  would  have  at- 
tributed wholly  to  his  artist  anxieties,  but  which  we 
sagely  suspect  were  largely  combined  with  other  half- 
formed  feelings  and  emotions,  that,  vague  and  unde- 
fined as  they  were,  had  already  acquired  the  mastery 
of  his  heart. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  137 


CHAPTER   XL 


TEMPTATION  AND  TRIAL. 


Helen  and  her  new  friend  proceeded  directly  to 
the  lady's  house,  the  modest  appearance  of  which 
struck  the  young  girl  as  somewhat  different,  both  in 
style  and  location,  from  what  she  had  expected.  She 
bestowed  no  particular  thought  upon  the  subject,  how- 
ever, and  followed  her  companion  into  the  house, 
without  making  any  observation. 

Going  directly  up  stairs,  Mrs.  Anthony  led  the 
way  to  the  third  story,  and  entered  the  room  adjoin- 
ing Rosalie's,  and  communicating  with  it  by  a  glazed 
door — the  glass  of  which,  however,  being  either  ground 
or  painted  white,  prevented  all  observation  through 
it.  There  was,  besides,  a  sofa  against  the  door, 
showing  that  it  was  not  in  use. 

The  table  and  bed  were  spread  out  with  pieces  of 
calico  and  muslin,  trimmings,  thread,  and  all  the  et- 
ceteras of  feminine  handicraft ;  and,  seating  her  guest 
on  the  little  sofa,  she  placed  herself  beside  her,  and 
began  saying: 

*'  Now,  my  dear  young  lady,  thee  sees  thy  workshop. 
12* 


138  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Here  is,  in  abundance,  every  thing  thee  requires.  I 
should  be  glad  if  thee  would  fall  to  work  immediately, 
and  cut  out  a  dozen  little  frocks,  of  the  size  and  pat- 
tern thee  will  find  there.  We  have  several  young  la- 
dies who  are  ready  to  assist  in  the  sewing,  but  they 
have  not  the  skill  to  cut  and  fashion  the  garments  to 
the  best  advantage.  I  have  some  other  errands  to  do, 
this  afternoon,  and  will  send  thee  directly  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  some  lunch.  Meanwhile,  fall  to  work,  my 
dear  young  lady,  and  God  speed  thee  ! " 

The  unsuspecting  girl,  happy  at  having  found  em- 
ployment so  suitable  to  her  wishes,  and  by  which  she 
was  to  be  enabled  to  assist  materially  in  the  expenses 
of  their  home,  threw  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and 
went  to  work  with  alacrity.  She  did  not,  however, 
hear  the  key  turned  softly  in  the  lock,  as  her  hostess 
went  out — or  she  would  not  have  gone  on  so  cheerfully 
with  her  new  employment. 

Hour  after  hour  went  by ;  and,  just  as  it  was  be- 
coming dark,  Mrs.  Anthony  reappeared  with  a  tray, 
upon  which  a  nice  warm  dinner  was  spread.  She  ex- 
cused herself  for  having  kept  her  so  long  without  her 
dinner — saying  that  her  errands  had  taken  more  time 
than  she  had  expected,  and  that  she  wished  to  see  for 
herself  that  she  was  well  served. 

"  Here  are  the  dozen  little  frocks,  madam,  all  ready. 
That  heap  there  on  the  bed  is  the  skirts,  and  here  are 
the  waists.  Besides,  you  see  that  I  have  cut  out  ano- 
ther for  myself,  and  have  almost  finished  it."  And 
she  held  up  her  work  before  her  hostess. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  139 

"Thee  is  Indeed  a  treasure ! "  exclaimed  the  good 
lady,  "we  shall  get  the  full  value  of  our  money  from 
thy  labour,  my  pretty  one !  I  feel  as  if  I  had  not 
offered  thee  enough." 

"  Oh,  yes — I  am  very  well  content,  and  will  do  my 
best  to  please  you,"  replied  the  grati-fied  Helen. 

"But  I  think  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  home.  I  will 
not  trouble  you  to  call  your  carriage,  madam — I  can 
very  well  run  home  by  myself." 

"  Thee  need  not  be  in  a  hurry.  I  have  promised 
thy  sister  to  take  good  care  of  thee,  and  send  thee 
home  in  safety ;  and  I  must  keep  my  word  to  the 
letter.  Besides,  it  is  not  good  for  beautiful  young  girls, 
like  thee,  to  walk  in  the  streets  alone,  after  night- 
fall." 

"  But  they  will  be  uneasy,  madam.  I  did  not  ex- 
pect to  stay  so  long  away :  and  brother  Arthur  will 
soon  come  home  now;  and  I  think,  if  you  please,  I 
will  go  at  once." 

"Very  good — it  shall  be  as  thee  pleases.  Eat 
some  dinner — for  I  am  sure,  after  working  so  steadily, 
thee  must  be  very  hungry.  I  will  go  down  stairs  and 
send  for  the  carriage." 

Helen,  who  really  was  hungry  and  fatigued — having 
seldom  worked  for  so  long  a  time  together — sat  down 
and  ate  her  dinner,  cheerfully. 

But  after  some  time  she  began  to  get  impatient,  and 
very  much  wondered  where  her  friend  Mrs.  Anthony 
could  be.  At  last  she  got  up  and  walked  to  the  win- 
dow.   It  was  quite  dark,  and  she  began  to  feel  a  vague 


140  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

and  nameless  terror.  She  looked  around  for  tlis  bell, 
determined  to  ring — but  slie  looked  in  vain.  Then, 
her  heart  beginning  to  beat  with  something  like  real 
alarm,  she  decided,  at  all  hazards,  to  go  down  stairs, 
and,  if  she  could  not  find  Mrs.  Anthony,  to  go  home 
alone,  and  in  the  dark.  Anything  was  better  than 
staying  any  longer  where  she  was. 

She  went  to  the  door,  and  found  that  it  was  locked ! 

Then,  indeed,  she  began  to  fear  in  earnest !  Where 
was  she?  Into  what  trap  had  she  been  inveigled? 
Who  was  Mrs.  Anthony  ?  Why  was  she  thus  a  pri- 
soner? 

She  listened — all  was  still  as  night.  Was  the  door 
really  fastened?  Had  not  her  fears  deceived  her? 
She  would  try  again.  No — there  was  no  mistake — 
the  door  was  indeed  locked  from  the  outside.  She 
tried  the  glazed  door  behind  the  sofa — that,  too,  was 
fastened.  Should  she  scream?  She  ran  to  the  win- 
dows, first  to  one,  then  to  the  other.  They  were  both 
so  firmly  fastened,  that  she  endeavoured  in  vain  to 
raise  them.  She  went  to  the  door  again,  and  beat 
against  it  till  her  strength  failed  her — she  called — 
she  screamed — until,  at  length,  overcome  by  terror, 
and  the  violence  of  her  exertions,  she  fainted,  and 
fell  on  the  floor. 

How  long  she  lay  in  this  state,  she  had  no  means 
of  knowing.  When  her  consciousness  first  returned, 
she  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  a  man  bending  over  her, 
with  a  lamp  in  his  hand. 

Starting  up,  and  pressing  her  hands  to  her  eyes,  as 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  141 

if  to  dispel  a  vision,  she  withdrew  them,  and  looked 
again.  There  could  be  no  deception  this  time :  she 
saw  standing  before  her,  the  quaker,  Ira  Henderson ! 

The  first  sensation  was  one  of  joy. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Henderson !"  she  exclaimed,  springing 
towards  him;  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you! — How  did 
you  come  here  ?  There  has  been  some  terrible  mis- 
take.    I" 

But,  although  it  was,  indeed,  Ira  Henderson,  yet 
he  was  very  different  from  the  Ira  Henderson  she  had 
known.  His  manner,  his  looks,  his  whole  aspect,  was 
completely  changed.  Instead  of  his  usual  cold  and 
chalky  countenance,  and  his  impassive  manner,  his 
face  now  beamed  with  a  strange  smile,  his  eyes  flashed, 
and  he  opened  his  arms  to  receive  her. 

"Come  hither,  poor  frightened  child!"  he  said, 
soothingly ;  "  who  has  hurt  thee  ? — what  is  the  matter  ? 
Come,  tell  thy  friend,  he  will  protect  thee  from  all 
harm." 

But  she  recoiled  from  him,  and  returned  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  in  fear  and  amazement.  A 
maiden's  instinct  is  the  true  touchstone — it  feels  the 
approach  of  impurity,  as  sensitively  as  the  opal  of  the 
Giersteins  did  water. 

"  Tell  me  where  I  am,  sir — and  why  you  came  here  ? 
And,  oh,  Mr.  Henderson — I  implore  you,  take  me 
back  to  my  sisters !  I  have  a  dreadful  suspicion  that 
I  have  been  decoyed  here — that  some  wrong  is  in- 
tended me.    I  conjure  you  to  take  me  from  this  place 


142  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

— let  me  but  into  the  street,  and  I  will  find  my  way 
home,  though  it  should  be  midnight." 

"Be  patient,  my  poor  frightened  little  bird;  I  would 
hold  some  converse  with  thee.  Come  near  me,  and 
sit  down  beside  me.  I  am  not  a  wild  animal  to  rend 
thy  beautiful  form,"  he  continued,  as  he  advanced  to- 
wards her,  his  eyes  sparkling  and  gloating  over  her 
delicate  figure,  as  if  he  really  were  an  animal,  who 
would  devour  her  on  the  spot. 

But  all  the  woman,  alarmed  for  her  honour,  was  now 
aroused  within  her.  She  saw  at  a  glance  the  infamous 
trick  that  had  been  practised  upon  her;  and,  if  she  still 
had  entertained  any  doubt  that  the  quaker  was  a  party 
to  the  transaction,  his  looks  and  gestures,  as  he  came 
towards  her,  would  have  confirmed  her  worst  fears. 
Suddenly  springing  by  him,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  which  stood  between  them,  she  rushed  to  the 
door,  and  was  darting  through  it,  when  she  was  caught 
by  one  arm  and  dragged  back  into  the  chamber, 
struggling  in  the  arms  of  Henderson,  who  s-trained 
her  fiercely  and  passionately  to  his  breast ;  then,  as  if 
he  suddenly  recollected  that  he  was  going  too  fast  to 
his  purpose,  he  set  her  down,  and  uttered  a  profound 
sigh.  He  now,  however,  took  care  to  secure  the  door 
— locking  it  on  the  inside,  and  putting  the  key  in  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  waist-coat.    ' 

She  was  furious.  Her  nostrils  dilated — her  face 
flushed  scarlet  with  shame  and  anger  at  the  unholy 
contact  of  his  person — her  eye  flashed  fire. 

"Wretched  old  man!"  she  exclaimed.     "What  do 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  143 

you  mean?  How  dare  you  touch  me?  Let  me  go 
from  this  vile  place,  instantly — this  very  moment !  I 
promise  you  faithfully  that  if  you  will  do  so,  I  will 
never  breathe  to  mortal  that  I  have  seen  you  here. 
If  you  don't,  I  will  proclaim  your  villany  to  the  whole 
world." 

"Let  thee  and  me  argue  that  question  a  little, 
beautiful  damsel !  I  swear  by  the  profane  boy  Cupid, 
that  never  before  did  thee  appear  to  me  half  so  ravish- 
ing !  Oh,  maiden !  If  thee  but  knew  how  I  love  thee ! 
Listen  to  me — nay,  if  thee  will,  I  will  not  come  nearer 
thee  than  I  now  am.  Sit  thee  down  on  that  side  of 
the  table — I  will  remain  on  this.  There — so  thee  is 
quite  safe,  thee  sees.  Let  me  talk  Avith  thee — let  me 
reason  the  case  with  thy  better  judgment." 

She  sank  into  a  chair — indeed,  she  could  no  longer 
stand.  11ie  paroxysm  that  gave  her  supernatural 
strength^  had  passed  away ;  she  trembled  in  every  limb, 
and  would  have  fallen,  had  she  attempted  to  take  a 
single  step.  She  felt  that  she  needed  time  to  regain 
at  least  some  portion  of  her  strength,  and  sat  looking 
at  him  steadfastly  in  the  eyes. 

"Nay,  do  not  look  at  me  like  that,''  said  the  quaker, 
while  a  shudder  of  passion  ran  through  his  frame ;  "  do 
not  look  like  that,  or  I  shall  surely  forget  myself! " 

She  blushed  at  what  his  words  implied,  and  her  eyes 
sunk  in  shame  and  mortification. 

"Now  mark  me,  fair  maiden !  "  at  length  said  Hen- 
derson, speaking  with  a  voice  still  stifled  with  passion. 


144  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

*'  I  have  much  to  saj  to  thee.  But,  first,  I  love  thee, 
and  would  do  thee  no  evil,  but  rather  good." 

'' Monster!"  she  exclaimed,  shuddering,  in  her  turn 
— hut  with  womanly  disgust. 

^'Call  me  no  names!"  exclaimed  Henderson,  his 
face  flushing  purple;  ^'it  will  be  the  worse  for  thee. 
But  listen  calmly  to  what  I  have  to  say,  and  thee  will 
have  no  reason  to  complain  of  Ira  Henderson  the 
quaker." 

He  paused ;  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead ; 
and,  restraining  himself  by  a  violent  effort,  withdrew 
his  devouring  gaze  from  the  fair,  trembling  girl,  and 
then  resumed. 

*'I  love  thee,  maide"a;  my  soul  is  sick  for  thee — 
thee  must  be  mine !  Nay,  start  not !  Men  like  me 
do  not  give  way  to  a  temptation,  and  then  consent  to 
lose  it.  I  have  struggled  in  vain  with  the  desire  that 
consumes  me.  I  do  verily  believe,  maiden,  that  my 
life  depends  on  possessing  those  exquisite  charms. 
Thee  has  hitherto  deemed  me  the  puritan,  the  ascetic 
— dead  to  all  human  feelings  and  passions.  But  know 
me  now,  for  what  I  am — the  adorer  of  thy  sex,  and 
most  of  all  of  thee.  Thy  beauties  have  inflamed  my 
very  soul.  They  are  ever  present  before  me.  At 
midnight  I  dream  of  thee,  and  start  from  slumber  stri- 
ving to  clasp  thee.  Bethink  thee,  whether,  after 
making  this  confession,  I  am  likely  to  give  thee  up ! 
No — no — a  thousand  times !  Thee  must  and  shall  he 
mine!" 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  145 

At  the  fierce  tone  of  his  voice,  not  less  than  at  the 
"words  themselves,  Helen  recoiled  in  horror. 

"  N aj — I  mean  thee  fairlj ;  I  mean  thee  fairly.  See 
— I  hold  in  my  hands  the  power  to  restore  thy  father's 
fortune  to  thee  and  thy  family — all — all — to  the  last 
dollar :  it  needs  but  a  word  from  thee,  and  it  is  done ! 
Think  of  that !  Think  of  thy  poor  mother — thy  sisters 
slaving  and  dragging  their  lives  out  in  their  squalid 
kitchen !  Think  of  thy  brother's  career — of  thy  former 
splendid  and  luxurious  life !  All  can  be,  and  shall  be, 
returned  to  thee — I  will  swear  it  by  any  profane  oath 
thee  may  dictate — restored  to  thee  and  thine  in  a  single 
day.  And  only  a  word  from  thee,  beautiful,  bewitching 
maiden !  Thee  consents !  I  see  thee  does  !  It  would 
be  a  crime  against  thy  brothers  and  sisters  to  refuse !  " 

"Do  you  speak  of  crime?"  replied  Helen,  who  had 
now  regained  her  self-possession,  and  had  nerved  her- 
self for  the  terrible  emergency  in  which  she  was  placed. 
"Do  you  speak  of  crime?  You,  who  are  trying  to 
tempt  me  to  become  infamous  before  God  and  man — 
a  scorn  and  a  by-word  to  my  brother  and  my  sisters ! 
Is  it  possible  that  mankind  contains  such  monsters  of 
perfidy  and  villany  ?  Begone — or  let  me  go  on  the 
instant!" 

There  was  so  much  of  grandeur  and  majesty  in  the 
attitude,  voice,  and  gesture  of  the  young  girl,  as  she 
rose  and  pointed  upwards,  as  if  appealing  to  Heaven 
to  send  down  its  justice  upon  the  guilty  being  before 
her,  that  for  a  moment  Henderson  shrank  from  her 
13 


146  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

looks,  and  his  resolution  seemed  to  fail  him.  She  saw 
the  effect  she  had  produced,  and  went  on : — 

^'  I  again  promise  you  that  I  will  spare  you  from  all 
exposure,  if  you  will  instantly  set  me  free.  I  will  account 
to  my  family  as  best  I  may,  for  this  absence — never  shall 
your  name,  in  connexion  with  this  transaction,  cross 
my  lips.  But  beware,  old  man  !  If  you  keep  me  here 
— if  you  dare  further  to  insult  me — I  will  proclaim 
you  the  villain  you  are,  and  my  brother  will  know  how 
to  punish  you  for  this  atrocious  outrage.  I  warn  you 
to  think  well  on  how  you  decide.  I  am  a  woman,  and 
alone — weak  and  heli^less,  as  you  deem  me,  and  doubt- 
less beyond  the  reach  of  other  aid  than  God's :  but  I 
am  still  stronger  than  you — God  will  give  me  strength. 
I  fear  you  not — I  only  loathe  and  detest  you." 

^'  Thee  is  magnificent,  fair  Helen — thee  would  tempt 
a  saint  to  forego  paradise!  But  thee  is  but  a  bad 
logician,  girl !  Does  thee  not  know  that,  in  order  to 
proclaim  to  the  world  all  those  fine  things  thee  has 
threatened,  thee  must  go  into  the  world — it  cannot 
hear  thee  utter  a  syllable  from  where  thee  is  at  this 
moment !  And,  as  I  said  to  thee,  I  am  not  a  man  to 
be  balked  in  his  caprice — and  especially  such  a  dainty 
caprice  as  thee !  I  would  risk  losing  my  life  sooner 
than  give  thee  up.  Thee  can  never  depart  from  this 
chamber  but  as  mine.  And  yet,  if  thee  consent,  every 
good  shall  attend  thee.  Thy  fortune  shall  be  restored 
— thy  secret  kept  from  thy  family,  and  from  all  the 
world — and  we  will  meet  here,  only  here,  in  precious 
communion.     Sees  thee  not  how  easy — how  proper — 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  147 

how  convenient — how  in  every  way  advantageous — it 
IS  ?  Reflect !  Let  thy  woman's  wit  and  common  sense 
decide." 

"Leave  me,  sir — at  least  for  awhile,"  said  Helen, 
at  length,  letting  Henderson  suppose,  from  the  altered 
tone  of  her  voice,  that  she  was  at  least  willing  to  think 
seriously  of  his  proposals.  "It  is  true,"  she  contined, 
"  that  I  am  in  your  power;  yet  it  seems  to  me  like  a 
dream.  It  is  incredible  that  Ira  Henderson — my 
father's  friend,  whom  he  trusted  as  he  would  have 
trusted  a  brother — can  be  guilty  of  this  outrage  upon 
his  daughter.     I  cannot  believe  it !  " 

"Do  not  deceive  thyself  on  that  point,  lovely 
Helen !  The  time  for  hypocrisy  is  over ;  what  I  have 
told  thee,  is  the  veritable  truth — the  alternative  I  have 
placed  before  thee  is  the  only  one  from  which  thee  has 
power  to  choose.  And  that  thee  may  have  time  to 
think  freely  and  decide  wisely,  I  will  withdraw  for  a 
brief  time.  It  is  now  past  midnight :  at  the  third  hour, 
I  will  revisit  thee — by  that  time,  thy  decision  must  be 
made.  Remember;  I  offer  thee  fairly,  maiden,  and 
mean  thee  well — but  if  thee  continues  obstinate,  the 
worse  will  befall  thee.  Thou  canst  not,  and  shalt  not 
escape  me !  "  and  the  intenseness  of  his  feeling  actually 
made  him  forget  the  conventional  jargon  of  his  life  and 
sect,  and  for  once  resort  to  grammatical  language. 

He  rose  from  his  seat — gazed  for  a  moment  at  the 
beautiful  girl,  with  a  stern  and  unpitying  glance,  and 
then  slowly  left  the  room,  carefully  locking  the  door 
as  he  went  out. 


148  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


ROSALIE. 

Some  years  before  the  commencement  of  this  history, 
a  little  girl  sat  by  the  side  of  her  dying  mother,  in  the 
steerage  of  an  emigrant  ship,  on  the  Atlantic.  She 
was  too  young  to  understand  what  death  was — but  she 
felt  that  some  great  sorrow  was  about  to  come  upon 
her.  She  had  never  had  any  other  friend  than  her 
mother ;  and  when  she  was  gone,  the  little  girl  would 
be  all  alone  in  the  world,  with  no  one  to  take  care  of 
her,  or  even  to  speak  to  her — all  alone  on  the  waters, 
with  not  one  face  she  had  ever  seen,  in  the  country 
where  she  was  going.  She  could  not  reason  upon  the 
consequences  of  this — but  she  had  a  highly-endowed 
and  sensitive  nature;  and  the  instincts  of  the  child 
seemed  dimly  to  reflect  her  destiny.  She  was  not  more 
than  six  or  seven  years  old,  and  yet  she  did  not  look 
like  a  child.  Her  face  was  pensive  and  thoughtful; 
and  her  large  gray-blue  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  that 
did  not  overflow,  as  she  watched  her  mother's  pale  and 
suffering  face — such  tears  as  are  pressed  by  despair 
from  the  heart  ripened  by  years  and  suffering.  The 
exquisite  beauty  of  her  infantile  head,  the  unstained 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  149 

lustre  of  the  silken  hair,  the  babyish  grace  of  her  atti- 
tude, contrasted  strangely  with  the  intense  expression 
of  her  face,  and  her  steady,  prophetic  look,  piercing 
futurity.  The  seal  of  suffering  was  already  imprinted 
on  this  child,  marking  her  as  of  a  nature  too  high  and 
noble  for  aught  but  sorrow. 

The  mother  had  been  seemingly  asleep ;  but  her  voice 
suddenly  recalled  the  child  from  her  revery. 

''Rosalie,  do  you  love  me?"  said  her  mother,  in  a 
faint,  trembling  voice. 

The  child  did  not  answer ;  but  the  tears  that  had 
been  brimming  in  her  eyes,  gushed  over,  and  she  rose 
and  threw  herself  upon  her  mother's  neck — yet  tenderly 
and  carefully,  as  if  she  remembered  how  weak  and 
fragile  she  was.  Then,  creeping  her  little  fingers 
among  the  dark  masses  of  her  mother's  hair,  the  full 
heart  began  sobbing. 

"Mamma!"  at  length  whispered  the  child. 

"  Rosalie,  is  it  you  ?  Where  am  I  ?  Oh,  I  remember 
all  again." 

"Here,  darling,  take  your  mother's  portrait  and 
hang  it  about  your  neck — let  it  always  rest  upon  your 
heart.  It  is  all  I  have  to  leave  you — may  it  prove  a 
talisman,  to  save  you  from  a  fate  like  mine !  Perhaps 
God's  mercy  will,  at  some  future  day,  restore  you  to 
our  dear  France,  and  the  friends  I  have  lost  forever. 
My  child  !  my  child !     May  God  protect  you !  " 

Then  she  suddenly  started  up,  »trained  her  child 
wildly  to  her  bosom,  kissed  her  eyes,  her  cheeks,  her 
hair ;  then,  holding  her  from  her,  and  gazing  with  in- 
13* 


150  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

cffable  tenderness  upon  her.  ^'I  am  going,"  she  cried, 
"  kiss  me — embrace  me !  Closer,  closer,  Rosalie  dear  ! 
I  feel  you  not — I  see  you  not !  And  now  you  are  as 
cold  as  a  dead  baby  upon  my  bosom !  Farewell,  and 
remember! " 

The  mother  was  dead,  and  the  child  lay  senseless  in 
her  stony  arms. 

During  this  scene,  several  of  the  female  passengers 
had  gathered  round  the  mother  and  child,  who  had 
been  objects  of  especial  interest,  during  the  whole 
voyage,  to  their  rough  but  kind-hearted  fellow  passen- 
gers. They  had  come  on  board  the  vessel,  at  Liver- 
pool, by  themselves — nobody  attended  them  or  looked 
after  them — and  they  did  not,  like  the  rest  of  the  pas- 
sengers, look  back  with  regrets  at  the  land  they  were 
leaving.  They  were  evidently  neither  Irish  nor  English 
— probably  French — for  the  few  words  they  exchanged 
with  each  other,  were  in  a  language  which  none  of  the 
other  passengers  understood. 

But  suffering  is  of  all  countries.  The  mother  was 
evidently  feeble,  and  for  the  first  few  days  had  suffered 
terribly  from  sea-sickness.  After  she  recovered  from 
that,  she  seemed  to  be  very  weak,  and  could  scarcely 
stand.  Finally,  she  took  to  her  bunk,  from  which  she 
never  rose  again. 

Among  the  passengers  in  the  steerage,  was  an  Irish 
woman,  of  a  better  condition  than  those  who  generally 
cram  the  steerage  of  our  emigrant  vessels.  She  had 
resided  in  the  United  States  some  years,  and  was  a 
well-to-do  widow,  keeping  a  little  corner  grocery  in 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  151 

Philadelphia.  Having  received  news  from  Ireland  of 
the  death  of  her  mother,  and  a  small  patrimony  that 
thus  fell  to  her,  she  had  gladly  taken  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  her  native  home  once  more,  and  had  gone  to 
settle  the  affair  in  person — leaving  her  grocery  in  charge 
of  a  friendly  and  honest  gossip  from  her  own  county 
in  the  Emerald  Isle.  She  was  now  on  her  return  home ; 
and  had,  from  the  first,  taken  a  special  interest  in  the 
poor  "forrin  craythur,"  and  her  pretty  and  interesting 
daughter. 

Kosalie  began  now  to  move;  and  Mrs.  O'Donnell 
went  up  and  took  her  in  her  arms,  and  carrying  her 
to  the  other  side  of  the  cabin,  came  back,  gazed  for  a 
moment  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  and  then  reverently 
covered  it  with  the  blanket,  that  had  served  for  both 
sheet  and  coverlet — muttering  a  few  words  in  a  low 
tone,  and  crossing  herself. 

Rosalie  now  retui-ned  towards  her  mother,  but  the 
woman  took  her  by  the  hand  to  lead  her  away,  saying, 
"'Tis  no  place  for  yees,  darlint — come  away,  come 
away ! " 

But  the  child  struggled  fiercely,  and  breaking  away 
by  a  sudden  movement,  ran  to  the  bunk,  crying  pi- 
teously. 

"  Mamau !  mamau !  Je  ne  veux  pas  te  laisser !  Je 
ne  veux  pas!" 

She  pulled  the  blanket  away,  and  was  struck  motion- 
less by  the  sight  of  the  face.  The  eternal  sculptor, 
who  moulds  his  marble  statues  from  the  Avarm  and 
living  flesh  and  blood,  had  done  his  work.     Rigidly 


152  OUK  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

tlie  jaw  fell  on  tlie  bosom — fixed  the  stony  eyes  glared 
with  the  livid  light  of  death.  The  young  soul  compre- 
hended all,  and  looked  calmly  at  the  image  of  what 
was  her  mother.  Then,  tenderly  and  carefully,  she 
closed  the  cold  eyes  with  her  soft  warm  fingers,  drew 
the  blanket  again  over  the  face,  and  knelt  down  by 
the  bunk,  turning  towards  her  visiter,  with  a  gestui'e 
and  look,  which  said,  in  a  language  not  to  be  mistaken, 
*'Let  me  watch  here !  " 

So  commenced  the  life  of  Rosalie — alone,  fatherless, 
motherless, — an  infant,  whose  very  childish  prattle 
was  not  understood  by  any  around  her — friendless, 
and  with  none  but  God  to  care  for  her  or  watch  over 
her  tender  years.  "What  a  destiny !  what  an  illustra- 
tion of  life  and  its  terrible  struggle !  How  should  she 
go  on  ?  How  escape  starvation  now,  or  crime  and  in- 
famy hereafter? 

Did  she  ask  herself  these  questions?  Had  her 
quick-dawning  mind  already  taken  in  the  meanings  of 
her  situation,  and  did  the  latent  energies  of  her  soul 
already  begin  to  move  and  develop  themselves  in  the 
inmost  recesses  of  her  being  ?  We  know  not.  But 
none  who  have  not  watched,  as  we  have  done,  the  ac- 
tivity of  thought  and  reason  in  the  mind  of  a  child,  can 
rightly  conjecture  how  quick  and  susceptible  that  mind 
may  become,  under  the  stimulus  of  unusual  circum- 
stances— how  prematurely  the  faculties  of  reason  and 
self-reliance  may  be  developed — nor  how  firmly  and 
strongly  the  will  of  infancy  may  be  moulded.  Children 
are  almost  always  misunderstood  by  men  and  women, 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  153 

who  treat  them  with  a  contemptuous  indifference,  which 
the  child  returns  with  bitterness  and  disdain.  It  has 
often  seemed  to  me  that,  in  all  but  absolute  material 
experience,  the  child  is  intellectually  the  equal  of  man. 
Who  does  not  recall,  in  the  still  and  silent  hours  of 
busy  life,  the  vivid  dreams  and  searching  speculations, 
the  reasonings,  the  doubts,  the  conclusions,  of  child- 
hood— and  is  not  sometimes  startled  to  find  that  the 
infant  instinct  had  intuitively  embraced  decisions  and 
opinions,  which,  rejected  in  the  pride  of  vain-glorious 
youth,  came  back  to  be  confirmed  by  the  sadder  and 
truer  experience  of  middle  age  ?  There  are  moments 
when  life's  perspective  is  reversed,  and  the  rising  sun- 
light of  infancy  appears  broader  and  brighter  and  more 
celestial  than  the  narrow  and  clouded  rays  of  mid-day. 
Indeed,  are  not  the  first  and  last  hours  of  earthly  ex- 
istence those  which  connect  us  most  nearly  with  the 
immortal  world? — whence  sent  out  wailing  and  help- 
less, to  a  dark  and  uncertain  pilgrimage,  moaning  and 
helpless  the  weary  spirit  joyfully  returns ! 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  follow  further  the  incidents 
of  this  voyage.  The  sad  and  desolating  event  to  poor 
Rosalie,  which  we  have  already  recorded,  was  neces- 
sary to  be  recalled,  in  order  for  the  comprehension  of 
the  early  life  of  Rosalie,  and  the  proper  comprehen- 
sion of  our  story. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  the  child 
could  be  removed  from  the  corpse  of  her  mother;  and 
when  they  came  to  take  it  away,  and  consign  it  to  the 
waves,  she  became  frantic,  and,  but  for  the  perse- 


154  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES 

vering  kindness  of  Mrs.  O'Donnell,  would  have  killed 
herself  in  despair. 

Mrs.  O'Donnell,  as  we  have  said,  was  a  widow,  and 
she  had  no  children.  She  had  already  made  up  her 
mind  to  adopt  little  Rosalie. 

Under  the  gentle  treatment  of  the  good  widow, 
poor  Rosalie  soon  grew  calm ;  and  before  the  voyage 
was  concluded,  she  had  become  quite  reconciled  to  her 
new  protector,  called  her  mamma,  and  had  already 
learned  a  strange  sort  of  dialect,  composed  of  French 
and  Irish,  and  which  gave  the  widow  huge  delight. 

As  soon  as  they  got  on  shore,  Mrs.  O'Donnell  has- 
tened to  Philadelphia,  with  her  new-found  protege, 
and  gladly  re-established  herself  in  her  own  little  store 
and  home. 

She  took  almost  a  mother's  fancy  for  the  pretty 
little  orphan,  and  watched  her,  day  by  day,  as  she 
grew  up  in  beauty  and  gentleness.  Rosalie  was  re- 
markably quick  and  intelligent ;  and  Mrs.  O'Donnell 
sent  her  to  school,  for  several  seasons,  until  she  had 
acquired  at  least  the  outlines,  if  not  the  rudiments,  of 
an  education. 

When  Rosalie  was  fifteen,  Mrs.  O'Donnell  placed 
her  in  a  little  fancy  dry-goods  shop,  where  she  soon 
became,  from  her  activity  and  good  nature,  a  great 
favourite  with  the  public,  as  well  as  with  her  em- 
ployers. 

When  Rosalie  was  a  little  over  sixteen,  Mrs.  O'Don- 
nell died — leaving  her  a  handsome  legacy,  amounting 
to  about  a  thousand  dollars,  after  the  affairs  of  the 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  155 

shop  were  closed  up,  and  everything  paid  off.  This  sum 
she  deposited  in  the  savings  bank,  and,  deeply  mourn- 
ing the  loss  of  her  benefactor  and  only  friend,  con- 
tinued in  her  situation — occupying  her  spare  time  in 
reading,  and  doing  what  she  could  to  extend  her  edu- 
cation, and  gratify  her  ardent  taste  for  knowledge 
and  refinement. 

Of  course,  so  beautiful  a  girl,  thus  daily  exposed  to 
the  gaze  of  the  public,  did  not  escape  the  attention 
of  numerous  of  the  "fast  young  men"  about  town — 
one  of  whose  principal  employments  consists  in  watch- 
ing the  shop  windows,  and  spying  out  every  new  face 
that  makes  its  appearance  behind  the  counter.  These 
shop-girls  are  considered  fair  game  by  the  sons  of  our 
aristocratic  families ;  and  it  is  notorious  that  many  of 
them  are  deliberately  selected  and  hunted  down  by 
them. 

Among  the  many  who  had  in  vain  endeavoured  to 
attract  the  attention  of  Rosalie,  at  length  appeared  a 
young  man,  who  was  destined  to  exert  a  controlling 
influence  over  her  fate.  This  was  Edward  Ingraham. 
For  a  long  time  he  watched  her  daily,  without  ac- 
costing her.  But  at  length  the  opportunity  occurred 
— and  the  mischief  was  done.  One  evening  she  was 
on  her  way  with  a  parcel,  for  a  lady  in  the  upper 
part  of  Chestnut  street.  She  did  not  usually  carry 
parcels ;  but  the  boy  had  gone  and  neglected  this  one, 
which  had  been  particularly  promised  to  be  left  that 
evening.     So,  seeing  that  there  was  no  one  else  to  do 


156  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

it,  she  offered  to  take  it,  as  there  was  still  plenty  of 
time  for  hei'  to  return  before  dark. 

Ingraham  had  been  watching  about  the  shop  for 
some  time,  during  the  afternoon;  and  as  soon  as  he 
saw  her  come  out,  he  followed  her.  Shortly  over- 
taking  her,  he  said,  very  politely, — 

"  It  seems  to  me  strange,  miss,  that  you  should  al- 
low yourself  to  be  made  an  errand-boy.  of." 

Rosalie  looked  up  at  the  handsome  and  open  face 
of  the  young  gentleman — which,  sooth  to  say,  she 
had  often  seen  and  involuntarily  admired;  and,  in- 
stead of  hurrying  on  without  replying,  as  she  had  at 
first  intended  to  do,  some  irresistible  spirit  of  mis- 
chief impelled  her  to  say, 

^'  Oh,  I'm  not  an  errand-boy,  I'm  an  errand-^/r?, 
if  you  please,  sir!  " 

"  Why,  so  you  are !  "  said  Ingraham,  laughing ;  "  and 
the  prettiest  one,  too,  that  ever  carried  a  parcel.  But 
come — now  that  I  have  at  last  got  to  speak  with  you, 
which  I  have  been  trying  to  accomplish  for  a  long 
time,  let  me  make  the  best  use  of  my  time.  I  am  a 
young  man  with  plenty  of  money,  and  I  admire  you 
beyond  anything.  I  wish,  seriously,  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  you ;  and  if  you  should  happen  to  find  me 
agreeable,  I  mean  to  marry  you.  I  have  nobody  to  con- 
sult, and  nobody  that  can  cross  my  wishes.  My  mean- 
ing is  really  honourable ;  and  if  you  will  give  me  an  op- 
portunity of  making  your  acquaintance,  I'll  convince 
you  of  it." 

Such  was  Rosalie's  first  declaration — her  first  offer. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  157 

Poor  girl  I  If  she  had  known,  as  well  as  we  know, 
reader,  the  real  value  and  meaning  of  such  words, 
uttered  under  such  circumstances,  she  would  have 
waited  not  another  instant,  but  would  have  ran  away 
as  fast  as  she  could — or,  if  that  had  not  answered, 
she  would  have  called  the  police,  or  the  passengers  on 
the  walk,  to  her  assistance,  to  rescue  her  from  the  im- 
pending destruction. 

But,  alas !  Rosalie  did  none  of  these  things.  She 
had  already  learned  to  admire  the  handsome  face  and 
form  of  this  young  man ;  and  when,  instead  of  accost- 
ing her  rudely,  or  insulting  her  with  some  infamous 
proposal,  he  spoke  to  her  so  softly  and  so  gently, 
commencing  by  declaring  his  wish  to  make  her  his 
wife,  she  did  not  know  what  to  say,  or  what  to  do. 
And  so  she  quickened  her  pace,  turned  away  her  head, 
and  remained  silent. 

"Then  you  positively  will  have  nothing  to  say  to 
me?  I  have  been  too  bold — I  have  offended  you  I 
Well,  then,  I  can  only  declare,  upon  my  honour,  that 
such  was  not  my  intention — and  that  I  most  sincerely 
beg  your  pardon.  Farewell!"  Saying  this,  Ingra- 
ham  left  her  side,  and  fell  behind. 

So  he  was  gone !  She  was  glad  of  it — yes,  very 
glad.  For  what  business  had  a  gentleman — even 
though  he  was  handsome,  and  spoke  so  softly — to  ac- 
cost a  modest  girl  like  her  in  the  street ;  and  to  make 
her  an  offer  of  marriage  almost  in  the  first  breath  ? 
Yes — she  was  very  glad  he  was  gone ! 

And  yet — oh.  Eve,  and  Mrs.  Lot,  and  all  the  other 
14 


158  OUE  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

women  that  ever  lived  I — "oh,  sin,  oh,  sorrow,  and 
oh,  womankind  I  " — our  very  fingers  tingle  with  blushes 
as  we  record  the  fact ! — Rosalie  looked  round !  It 
was  only  a  little — just  the  very  least  glance  in  the 
world !  But  the  angler's  watchful  eye  saw  that  his 
bait  had  been  swallowed,  and  was  sure  of  bringing 
the  bright  and  beautiful  little  flutterer  to  shore,  in 
good  time. 

He  was  at  her  side  again  in  an  instant, — "Will 
you  not,"  said  he,  even  in  softer  and  more  insinuating 
tones  than  before;  "will  you  not,  at  least,  tell  me 
your  name,  and  who  your  friends  are,  that  I  may,  if 
possible,  make  their  acquaintance,  and  thus  present 
myself  to  you  in  a  less  offensive  manner?  Sui'ely, 
you  cannot  deny  me  this?  " 

^' My  name  is  Rosalie,"  murmured  the  girl,  "and  I 
have  no  friends — they  are  all  dead !  " 

"Let  me,  then,  dear  Rosalie,  supply  the  place  of 
all  other  friends.  I  swear  that  I  do  not  mean  to 
wrong  you.  Will  you  not  see  me  again  ?  This  eve- 
ning, after  you  have  finished  your  day's  occupation? 
Meet  me  here,  and  we  will  walk  in  the  moonlight, 
while  I  explain  myself  more  fully  to  you."  Thus 
saying,  he  made  a  respectful  bow,  and  disappeared. 
He  knew  that  not  another  word  was  necessary;  the 
fish  was  caught. 

We  need  not  say  that  after  much  beating  of  the 
heart,  much  self-discussion,  and  a  little  crying,  Rosa- 
lie kept  the  appointment.  The  specious  arguments 
and  representations  of  the  handsome  young  man — 


OIR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  159 

who  called  himself  Edward  Brown — easily  prevailed 
on  her  to  repeat  the  interview.  They  hecame  fre- 
quent— at  last  almost  nightly — until,  one  fatal  eve- 
ning, Edward  persuaded  her  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  aunt 
— oh,  those  aunts ! — a  worthy  and  respectable  quaker 
lady,  who  had  the  greatest  desire  to  see  the  future 
wife  of  her  nephew.  In  fact,  he  had  positively  pro- 
mised that  she  should  come.  He  was  so  persuasive 
— so  tender — so  handsome !  So,  what  could  the  poor 
girl  do?  She  was  already  desperately  in  love;  and 
a  girl  in  love,  thinks  her  lover  every  thing  grand, 
godlike  and  supernatural.     And  so — and  so — 

"  A  little  still  she  strove,  and  much  repented — 
And  whispering,  '  I  will  ne'er  consent,'  consented!  " 

Mrs.  Anthony — the  reader  may  have  already  di- 
vined her — w^as  as  much  at  the  service  of  the  young 
and  dashing  Edward  Ingraham, — under  his  assumed 
name  of  Brown — as  of  the  old  and  cautious  Ira  Hen- 
derson. Between  them  both,  she  drove  a  prosperous 
trade ;  and,  if  one  might  judge  from  her  sleek,  healthy 
and  robustious  form,  and  round  smooth  face,  slept 
soundly,  and  kept  an  easy  conscience. 

Rosalie  had  already  been  several  months  in  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Anthony,  when  the  incidents  occurred 
which  are  related  in  the  following  chapters. 


ItJO  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES^ 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  MATIN  fiE  MUSICALE. 


From  the  fierce  and  bloody  contests  of  the  Blue 
and  Green  factions  of  the  Byzantine  Hippodrome, 
which  lasted  for  four  centuries,  and  whose  contests 
frequently  decided  the  fate  of  contending  aspirants 
for  the  imperial  purple,  and  massacred  thousands  in  a 
single  day,  society  has  been  more  or  less  agitated  and 
divided  on  the  subject  of  the  choice  of  colours.  The 
long  and  terrible  contests  of  the  White  and  Bed  roses 
— the  massacres  of  the  Cockade  in  France — the  strug- 
gles of  the  Buff  and  the  Blue  in  England's  later  days 
— the  Bed  Bepublican  massacres,  and  the  Orange 
Riots  of  our  own  time — to  say  nothing  of  the  Blue 
Laws  of  Connecticut,  which  are  just  now  coming  into 
force  again,  with  more  than  their  original  stringency 
— are  all  too  familiar  to  the  Enlightened  Public,  for 
us  to  detain  it  with  a  recapitulation  of  the  events  to 
which  they  have  led. 

But,  perhaps  in  the  whole  history  of  these  contests 
of  colours ;  no  severer  or  more  protracted  struggle  is  on 
record,  than  that  which  took  place  in  the  mind  of  Miss 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  161 

Jemima  Jenkins,  on  the  emergent  question  whether  she 
looked  best  by  daylight  in  Red  or  Blue ! 

It  will  perhaps  be  recollected,  that,  although  Miss 
Jenkins  had  industriously  propounded  this  question  to 
every  one  of  her  acquaintances  in  turn,  the  only  suc- 
cinct suggestion  which  had  been  vouchsafed  to  her, 
was  that  of  her  friend  and  relative,  Mrs.  Henderson, 
who  had  briefly  but  frequently  advised  her  to  "  try 
both."  After  much  and  painful  deliberation  on  this 
point — after  having  purchased  the  last  three  numbers 
of  Graham  8  Magazine^  and  carefully  studied  the  ef- 
fects of  the  various  contrasts  of  colour,  as  exhibited  in 
its  fascinating  fashion-plates — Miss  Jemima  at  length 
actually  resolved  the  question  by  taking  her  aunt's  ad- 
vice. Yes — she  was  determined  to  try  both !  The  ef- 
fect was,  at  least,  striking.  The  skirt  of  her  dress  was 
of  bright  blue — the  four  flounces  dazzling  red.  The 
boddice  was  disposed  in  alternate  stripes  of  blue  and 
red ;  the  feathers  on  one  side  of  her  newly-curled  pe- 
ruke were  blue  marabouts — on  the  other,  red.  The 
strings  of  this  remarkable  head-dress,  were  each  blue 
and  red,  decussating  beneath  the  chin,  and  streaming 
over  her  shoulders  like  the  pennants  of  two  packet- 
ships  in  the  Delaware,  belonging  to  opposite  lines. 
Her  scarf  was  blue,  with  red  fringe;  and  we  verily 
believe,  though  we  have  no  ocular  evidence  to  offer 
on  the  subject — Honi  soit  qui  maly  pense,  you  know ! 
— that  the  poor  puzzled  maid's  stockings  and  garters, 
were  of  the  same  variegated  complexion. 

The  effect  of  this  costume  upon  the  crowded  and 
14* 


102  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

brilliant  assemblage,  at  the  matinee  miisicale  of  Mrs. 
Valentine,  was  tremendous.  Many  of  the  youngei 
portion  of  the  audience  supposed  that  she  was  to  be 
a  part  of  the  performance ;  and  at  the  end  of  every 
piece,  expected  her  to  make  her  appearance,  and  go 
through  with  a  fancy-dance.  However,  nothing  of 
this  kind  occurred.  Miss  Jenkins,  somewhat  op- 
pressed by  her  gorgeousness,  and  embarrassed  by  the 
unusual  attention  she  received,  modestly  retired  to  a 
seat  behind  one  of  the  drawing-room  doors,  whence 
she  did  not  move  during  the  entire  performance. 

And  now,  all  the  guests  being  arrived,  and  the 
little  satin-paper  programmes  distributed  liberally  on 
all  sides,  at  about  four  o'clock,  the  concert  really  be- 
gan. 

Madame  de  Saintlieu,  the  object  of  universal  at- 
tention— that  rara  avis,  a  woman  whom  women  have 
consented  to  lionize — entered,  during  an  introductory 
from  the  piano,  played  despite  his  courage,  very  ir- 
regularly and  nervously  by  poor  Wilmar,  whose 
blood  was  set  tingling,  and  fingers  wandering,  by 
the  rustle  of  Madame  de  Saintlieu' s  dress,  smiling 
encouragingly  as  she  passed.  She  was,  of  course, 
very  much  quizzed  and  criticised  by  all  the  ladies. 
The  tall  ones  thought  her  too  short;  the  thin,  too 
stout;  the  skinny  declared  her  arms  were  too  large; 
and  those  who  for  obvious  reasons  always  wore  their 
dresses  buttoned  up  to  the  throat,  were  considerably 
shocked  at  the  looseness  of  her  corsage.  However,  on 
the  whole  she  got  off  pretty  well  with  the  female  part 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  163 

of  the  audience — and  as  to  the  gentlemen,  they  were  a 
little  afraid  of  her.  All  agreed  that  she  was  an  "un- 
commonly fine  woman" — but  there  was  something  in 
her  easy  calmness  and  unconscious  self-possession, 
which  made  them  uneasy. 

It  had  been  voted  permissible  to  applaud ;  and  as 
she  stood  up  to  sing,  she  was  greeted  with  an  immense 
clapping  of  kid  gloves ;  and  here  and  there,  some  am- 
bitious young  gentlemen,  whose  moustaches  and  Italian 
were  in  the  very  earliest  stages  of  development,  com- 
menced crying  hray-vo  hray-vah  and  hray-vi^  in  all 
the  terminations  of  which  a  bray  may  be  supposed  to 
be  susceptible,  before  she  had  sung  a  note. 

A  large  number  of  the  audience,  however,  knew 
what  they  were  about,  and  had  really  come  to  hear. 
All  now  was  profound  silence ;  and  as  Wilmar  faintly 
struck  the  few  preliminary  chords  of  Leonora's  prayer, 
the  solemn  and  despairing  expression,  which  the  music 
seemed  to  call  up  on  the  artist's  countenance,  made 
every  heart  still  its  beating,  and  every  bosom  sus- 
pend its  breath.  She  began  so  tremblingly  and  low, 
that  several  of  the  "regular  old  stagers,"  as  they 
call  themselves,  began  to  fear  for  "stage  fright,"  and 
to  exchange  those  glances  of  triumphant  pity,  which 
so  freely  circulate  when  any  misfortune  happens  to 
an  artist's  'voice  and  execution — as  much  as  to  say, 
"  There !  did  you  hear  that  ? — Poor  thing !  " 

But  their  fears  were  groundless.  Before  the  first 
few  bars  were  over,  they  forgot  that  they  were  listening 
to  an  elegant  French  woman,  faultlessly  dressed,  as 


1G4:  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIE^^. 

if  she  had  but  to-day  stepped  from  the  fauboui'g  St. 
Germain,  and  seemed  to  hear  alone  the  wailing  and 
pleading  of  a  broken  heart — of  a  woman  dying  of 
shame,  and  remorse,  and  inextingui.-hable  love.  The 
critics  forgot  to  take  notes — tne  unmusical  forgot  that 
they  didn't  care  anything  about  music — many  sighed 
and  grew  pale  with  emotion — and  many  wept  unre- 
strainedly. When  the  last  accents  of  the  prayer  had 
died  away,  there  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  spontaneous 
hrava  !  quite  unconventional  and  vulgar,  but  none  the 
less  hearty  and  sincere.  Then  came  congratulations 
— sincere,  for  once;  for  the  strength  of  the  emotions 
which  the  artist  had  excited,  overcame,  for  the  moment, 
the  ordinary  affectations  and  concealed  jealousies  which 
repress  art  and  poison  society. 

It  was  now  Wilmar's  turn,  with  his  grand  cajyriccio, 
over  which  he  had  spent  so  many  hours.  Before  he 
commenced,  the  young  musician  turned  to  her  who  had 
inspired  his  composition,  as  if  to  renew  the  spell  under 
which  his  imagination  had  first  struck  it  out.  She 
was  there,  with  that  same  calm,  steady,  strength-im- 
parting smile,  which  she  had  first  fixed  upon  him.  He 
replied  by  a  look  of  gratitude,  devotion,  love — every- 
thing that  the  heart  of  genius  may  feel  for  the  woman 
who  has  first  awakened  the  deep  fountains  of  his  soul, 
and  showed  the  heavens  and  earth,  and  all  things 
beautiful,  reflected  there. 

The  capriccio  went  off  splendidly.  It  was  really 
superbly  played,  so  far  as  feeling  and  fancy  were  con- 
cerned— and  the  composition  possessed  many  beauties. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  165 

Madame  cle  Saintlieu,  however,  for  whose  applause 
alone  the  artist  looked,  shook  her  head  w^ith  a  playful 
sniile — as  much  as  to  say,  ''I  don't  like  it  so  well  as 
the  first  time."  He  understood  her ;  and  rising  from 
the  piano,  went  to  her,  to  explain,  that  much  of  his 
small  stock  of  electricity  was  necessarily  wasted  in 
such  a  crowd. 

"But  you?  "  he  continued;  "may  I  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion?" 

"Yes,  as  many  as  you  please." 

"It  is  a  very  impertinent  one;  I  believe,"  he  said, 
hesitating. 

"I  will  take  the  risk  of  that.     Proceed." 

"Well,  then — have  you  not  sung  on  the  stage?" 

"Never." 

"  How,  then,  do  you  obtain  that  perfect  self-posses- 
sion and  composure?" 

"Because  I  have  no  ambition." 

"You  cannot  mean  that." 

"Yes,  I  do — I  mean  that  the  bane  of  all  artists  is 
their  constant  self-criticism.  Nothing  is  to  be  done  in 
art  without  absolute,  entire  abandonment.  This  is 
the  old  story,  but  it  is  the  only  true  one.  But  you 
really  played  well.     Did  he  not,  Mrs.  Loftus?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  judge  of 
music ;  but  I  have  never  been  so  much  affected  by  the 
piano  before  in  my  life." 

Mrs.  Glacee  now  brought  up  Mr.  Attarby,  to  be  pre- 
sented to  Madame  de  Saintlieu.  He  spoke  feelingly 
and  judiciously  of  her  singing.     She  was  surprised  to 


166  OUR  FIRST  FAxMILIES. 

see  how  mucli  better  taste  he  had  in  music  than  women 
— and  although  she  said  nothing,  yet  an  almost  im- 
perceptible glance  from  Mrs.  Loftus,  told  her  that  her 
thoughts  were  understood. 

^'A  propoSy''  said  Mrs.  Valentine,  coming  up  from 
the  bottom  of  the  saloon,  where  she  had  been  to  see 
the  effect,  and  to  admire  the  complete  and  brilliant 
success  of  her  entertainment.  ''What  news  do. you 
bring  from  the  other  house ! ' '  Mr.  Attarby  ?  That 
was  really  too  cruel  of  Mrs.  Attarby,  to  lend  herself 
to  Mrs.  Henderson,  to  break  me  down." 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  been  there  yet — nor  do  I  intend  to 
go  until  evening.  I  should  not  wonder  if  my  adorable 
wife  played  them  all  some  prank,  in  revenge  for  Mrs. 
Henderson's  previous  slighting  of  her." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Balderskin,  making  her  way  to 
the  group  of  talkers,  "did  you  hear  your  wife's  last 
bo7i  mot,  about  Mrs.  Henderson  ?  I  got  it  of  poor  Je- 
mima, who  sits  yonder  behind  the  door,  buried  in  the 
American  flag,  and  doesn't  dare  to  stir." 

"But  the  hon  mot.  I  hear  so  many  good  things  of 
my  wife,  that  I  really  wish  she  would  try  and  keep 
some  of  them  for  home  consumption." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Henderson,  half  alarmed  at  having  in- 
vited an  actress  into  her  house,  said,  confidentially  to 
Jemima,  that  she  really  was  afraid  she  should  never 
dare,  after  all,  to  sit  down  to  the  table  with  her.  Of 
course,  Jemima,  being  bound  to  secrecy,  went  to  Mrs. 
Attarby  with  the  complimentary  speech."  '* 

"And  what  was  the  reply?"  inquired  Mrs.  Glacee. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  167 

"  ^  Oh,'  said  the  tragedienne ;  '  she  need  not  be  afraid 
— genius  isn't  catching ! '     Capital,  was  it  not?  " 

"  Ha !  ha !  very  excellent,  upon  roy  word !  "  said  Mr. 
Attarby,  with  a  grimace.  "But  I  think  it  is  Madame 
de  Saintlieu's  wish  to  go  on  with  the  programme." — 
"  Will  you  do  me  the  honour,  madame  ?  "  he  continued, 
offering  his  hand  to  lead  her  to  the  piano. 

But  we  will  not  pursue  the  course  of  the  programme 
further.  It  is  enough  that  the  affair  was  in  every  way 
a  success.  Mrs.  Valentine  was  in  high  spirits,  and 
declared  that  it  was  the  happiest  day  of  her  life.  She 
was  profuse  in  her  thanks  to  Mrs.  Loftus,  who  had 
introduced  Madame  de  Saintlieu. 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Loftus,"  said  she,  taking  her 
aside,  ''who  is  Madame  de  Saintlieu?  Isn't  she  some 
great  celebrity  in  disguise?  " 

"No — she  is  exactly  what  she  represents  herself. 
Her  letters  to  Mr.  Loftus  are  unquestionable,  and  so 
is  her  position.  Had  I  not  been  certain  of  this,  you 
may  be  sure,  my  dear  madam,  that  I  should  not  have 
introduced  her  here.'' 

There  might  have  been  a  slight  tone  of  irony  in  this, 
but  Mrs.  Valentine  was  too  well  pleased  with  herself 
and  every  body  around  her,  to  be  sensible  of  it. 

"  So,  she  has  come  here  to  support  her  children,  you 
say  ?     How  did  she  lose  her  fortune  ?  " 

'  I  do  not  know  that  she  has  actually  lost  her  for- 
tune— I  believe  her  income  is  only  suspended  for  a 
time,  owing  to  the  assets,  deposits  and  all,  of  some 


168  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES: 

delinquent  banker  in  Paris,  being  taken  possession  of 
by  the  courts." 

^'Does  she  mean  to  go  on  the  stage? " 

"  I  trust  not.  The  talent  and  genius  so  conspicuous 
in  a  drawing-room,  her  natural  sphere,  would  probably 
fail  her  on  the  stage,  to  which  she  is  entirely  unused. 
Besides,  we  must  keep  her  to  ourselves." 

After  the  music  was  over,  the  favoured  few,  who 
had  received  special  invitations,  remained,  for  supper 
and  a  dance.  Wilmar,  who  was  dying  for  this  oppor- 
tunity of  conversing  with  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  still 
felt  uneasy  respecting  Helen — although  he  did  not 
know  exactly  what  he  feared.  He  therefore  took  leave 
of  Mrs.  Valentine  and  explained  to  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu  the  reason  for  his  going, — adding  that  he  hoped 
that  their  acquaintance  was  not  necessarily  to  end  be- 
cause the  concert  was  over. 

"I  trust  not,"  she  replied,  frankly  and  sincerely, 
but  without  manifesting  the  least  embarrassment;  *'it 
will  always  give  me  pleasui-e  to  see  you,  while  I  remain 
here." 

"I  trust  to  you  for  teaching  me  many  things  about 
art,  that  I  have  partly  dreamed  of,  but  do  not  know." 

*'  Trust  more  to  yourself — think  not  of  the  opinions 
of  others — at  least,  not  now.  This  is  the  best  advice 
I  can  give  you." 

''  Adieu,  madam ! "  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

She  gave  him  her  soft  hand,  whose  touch  again 
thrilled  him,  as  on  that  day  when  their  fingers  had 
met  on  the  keys  of  the  piano.     He  held  it  a  moment 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  169 

— he  seemed  as  if  lie  were  about,  unconsciously,  to  put 
it  to  his  lips.  She  gently  withdrew  it,  and  said,  softly, 
^' o;ood  nio;ht !  " 

But,  these  two  little  syllables  contained  a  tone  which, 
to  him,  made  them  a  reward  for  all  the  evils  and  dis- 
asters of  life.  And  yet,  how  mistaken  he  was  !  They 
were  kind,  sincerely,  truly  kind — nothing  more.  Let 
not  the  wild-eyed  artist  dream  that  there  was  aught 
else  in  that  tone ! 


15 


170  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  Xiy. 


A   NIGHT   OF   BLOOD. 


Ingraham  did  not  make  his  appearance  at  the  con- 
cert. With  that  waywardness  which  characterized  all 
his  movements,  he  studiously  kept  out  of  the  way, 
merely  because  he  was  particularly  wanted.  After 
an  erening  spent  in  the  same  round  of  low  dissipation 
which  we  have  already  described, — going  from  haunt 
to  haunt,  each  lower  than  the  other  in  the  scale  of  de- 
pravity,— he  stole  away  from  his  companions,  about 
midnight ;  and  making  his  way  to  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Anthony,  opened  the  door  noiselessly,  and  went  in. 

A  night-lamp  stood  on  the  hall  table,  which  he  took, 
and  proceeded  up  the  stairs.  When  he  was  about 
half-way  up,  a  door  in  the  hall  above,  opened,  and  a 
woman  in  her  night-clothes,  and  bare-footed,  leaned 
over  the  banisters,  saying,  "  Is  that  yoo,  Mr.  Brown  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Anthony,"  replied  Ingraham,  looking 
up  at  the  woman;  ''it's  all  right.  Has  Rosalie  gone 
to  bed  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — I  guess  not.     She  don't  seem  to  be 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  171 

"Well  to-night.  She  got  a  letter  this  morning,  which 
set  her  off  in  a  terrible  way.  I've  been  taking  care 
of  her  all  the  evening.  But  she's  better  now.  "•  Good 
night."    And  the  woman  went  back  into  her  own  room." 

Ingraham — or  Brown,  as  we  must  now  call  him, 
went  on  up  the  other  staircase  to  the  third  story,  mut- 
tering to  himself,  ^'A  letter!  Who  can  have  been 
writing  to  her?     I  wonder  what's  in  the  wind." 

He  found  Rosalie  in  a  night-wrapper,  sitting  in  a 
low  rocking-chair,  with  her  elbows  on  a  table  by  her 
side,  and  her  chin  supported  by  her  hands,  gazing  at 
a  miniature  lying  before  her.  She  did  not  look  up,  or 
change  her  posture  in  the  least,  as  he  came  in.  An 
open  letter  was  lying  on  the  table — her  handkerchief, 
limp  with  tears,  beside  it :  but  she  was  not  weeping 
now.  The  storm  had  expended  its  fury,  though  the 
face  was  still  clouded,  and  the  eyes  looked  red  and 
glared  strangely. 

"Why,  Rosalie,  what's  the  matter,  girl?"  said  In- 
graham, going  towards  her. 

"Stand  off!"  she  uttered,  in  a  low,  quick  voice. 
"  Do  not  come  any  nearer  to  me, — see  here  !  "  and  she 
drew  a  small  silver-cased  dagger  from  the  bosom  of 
her  night-wrapper. 

"Are  you  crazy,  girl?"  said  Ingraham,  starting 
back — for  your  fast  man  is  not  over  fond  of  cold  steel 
in  any  other  shape  than  an  oyster-knife.  "What's 
the  matter,  I  say?" 

"Is  your  name  Ingraham?"  said  the  girl,  in  the 
same  low,  spasmodic  voice. 


172  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

^' Ingraliam !  No!"  he  replied,  turning  pale. — 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

''  Yes — I  do  know  you.  You  are  Edward  Ingraham, 
nephew  of  Mrs.  Valentine, — and  besides,  you  are  an 
infamous,  black-hearted  villain  !  " 

^'  Rosalie  ! — Take  care  !  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying  ?  Who  has  put  all  this  nonsense  into  your 
head?" 

"  Read  that  letter  " — and  she  flung  it  towards  him. 

He  stooped,  and  took  it  from  the  floor,  where  it  had 
fallen ;  then,  approaching  the  light,  but  carefully  keep- 
ing the  table  between  him  and  the  girl,  he  sat  down 
and  read: 

"Mademoiselle, — I  do  not  know  you;  but,  whoever 
you  are,  you  are  a  woman,  and  therefore  deserve  to 
be  saved.  Do  you  know  the  man  you  have  trusted 
with  your  destiny  ?  Do  you  even  know  his  real  name  ? 
It  is  Edward  Ingraham,  and  he  is  the  nephew  of  Mrs. 
Valentine,  of street.  He  is  about  paying  his  ad- 
dresses to  a  wealthy  young  lady  in  his  own  circle  of 
society.     I  have  warned  you — I  say  no  more." 

"A  Woman." 

"When  did  you  receive  this?  Where  did  it  come 
from?     Where  is  the  envelope?" 

"  No  matter.     Is  it  true  ?  " 

"  No — no  ! — It's  a  lie — an  infamous  lie  !  I  know 
nothing  of  your  Edward  Ingrahams  and  your  fashiona- 
ble young  ladies.  But  I'll  know  who  wrote  that  letter 
—that  I  will  I" 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  173 

*^  It  is  no  matter  who  wrote  the  letter,  or  where  it 
came  from :  for  it  is  true,  Edward — true — all  true  !  and 
jou  have  deceived  and  betrayed  me.  Oh  God !  I  wish 
I  was  dead  !  Will  you  have  pity  on  me  ?  Will  you 
right  me  before  heaven  and  earth  ?  Will  you  do  what 
you  have  so  often  and  so  solemnly  promised  ?  Will 
you  marry  me?  " 

"My  dear  Rosalie,"  stammered  Ingraham,  "I  am 
astonished  at  you — what  can  all  this  mean  ?  You 
surely  are  not  so  foolish  as  to  believe  the  absurd  state- 
ments of  an  anonymous  letter.  I  thought  you  knew 
the  world  better.  It  is  probably  the  invention  of  some 
enemy  or  rival  of  mine,  who  has  seen  you,  and  wishes 
to  supplant  me  in  your  affections.  What  have  you 
got  there  ?  A  miniature ! — Let  me  see  it.  I  never 
knew  you  had  a  miniature." 

''  Yes — look  at  it.  It  is  my  mother's  picture — she 
put  it  round  my  neck  with  her  dying  hands,  when  I 
was  a  little  child, — oh,  I  remember  well  that  dreadful 
day !  Never  has  it  left  me  for  a  moment. — Look  at 
those  dear  features :  think  that  my  mother's  spirit  is 
now  watching  over  her  poor,  erring,  betrayed,  help- 
less child !  May  it  inspire  your  heart  with  pity  !  Ed- 
ward, you  have  deceived  me :  that  letter  is  true.  Mrs. 
Anthony  is  not  your  aunt — so  much  I  forced  from  her 
trembling  lips  this  very  night,  when  she  would  have 
consoled  me  in  my  agony.  Edward,  I  loved  you  dear- 
ly— I  still  love  you — when  I  cease  to  love  you,  I  must 
die.  You  are  to  me  all  the  world.  I  was  innocent 
and  happy — I  might  have  lived  virtuously,  and  met 
15* 


174  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

my  mother  in  heaven.  I  gave  my  destiny  into  your 
hands :  you  have  betrayed  me.  But  it  is  not  too  late. 
— Edward,  my  beloved — Tvill  you  do  me  right?  "Will 
you  save  me  from  despair  ?  "Will  you  bind  me  to  your 
heart  forever  ?  Will  you  keep  your  oft-pledged,  sacred 
promise  ?  Oh,  Edward,  I  implore  you,  answer  me ! 
It  is  my  life  I  ask  of  you  !  " 

That  pure,  saintly,  angelic  face  had  lost  all  traces 
of  anger — it  beamed  only  with  divine,  ineffable  love  and 
tenderness.  There  were  moments  in  Edward's  life, 
when  his  better  angel  was  present  with  him,  and  when 
he  could  not  have  withstood  that  pleading  face.  But 
now,  he  was  under  the  influence  of  the  demon.  He 
was  flushed  with  drink,  and  excited  by  all  the  brutal 
passions  and  appetites  which  a  night's  orgy  among  the 
haunts  of  vice  and  low  debauchery  could  not  but 
inspire.  Love,  virtue,  marriage, — amid  such  images 
and  recollections,  they  seemed  but  mockeries. 

He  gazed  at  the  being  before  him,  neither  with  fear, 
astonishment,  nor  love,  but  with  the  gross  passions  his 
night's  excesses  were  calculated  to  arouse.  Lovely 
she  was ;  her  beauty  had  first  drawn  him  towards  her 
— but,  beautiful  as  she  now  was,  he  had  never  seen 
her. 

There  she  stood — her  long  waving  hair  falling 
around  her,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  nostrils  dilated.  One 
arm  extended  towards  him,  clasped  the  dagger — the 
other  strove  to  still  the  beatings  of  her  heaving  bosom. 
*' Rosalie,"  said  he,  after  a  moment's  pause;  ^'  all  I 
ask  of  you  is  love.     Are  you  not  beautiful,  that  you 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  175 

may  be  loved?  Come,  forget  this  nonsensical  letter! 
You  are  mine — what  marriage  could  make  you  any 
more  mine  than  love?  Come,  Rosalie!  Edward  In- 
graham,  or  Edward  Brown,  am  I  not  still  your  Ed- 
ward? " 

As  he  spoke,  Edward  advanced  towards  Rosalie, 
and  attempted  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms ;  but  she  darted 
from  him,  with  a  look  of  defiance  and  contempt. 

"  Dare  you  insult  me  too  ?  No !  you  are  not  my 
Edward!  My  Edward  was  noble,  truthful,  just;  not 
the  degraded  creature,  reeking  from  low  taverns,  who 
now  reels  before  me.  Shame,  shame,  on  you!  your 
very  touch  would  chill  me  ! — Keep  off !  Remember 
all  your  sacred  vows !  In  the  eyes  of  God  I  am  your 
wife,  and  as  your  wife,  respect  me." 

''  Wife  !  "  said  Ingraham,  laughing  scornfully ;  ^'  men 
do  not  marry  their  mistresses.  And  if  I  am,  as  you 
80  hotly  insist,  Edward  Ingraham,  the  rich  nephew  of 
the  aristocratic  Mrs.  Valentine,  that  itself  is  an  insu- 
perable bar  to  my  marrying  a  shop-girl.  You  have 
mistaken  your  game,  my  pretty  Rosalie !  The  phantom 
you  have  yourself  conjured  up,  stands  forever  between 
you  and  your  wishes. 

"  Come,  let  us  have  no  more  fooling!  If  you  have 
done  it  to  show  how  uncommonly  handsome  you  are 
when  you  play  tragedy,  you  have  entirely  succeeded ! 
But  now  let  me  smooth  back  that  lovely  hair,  and  kiss 
your  flushed  cheek,  and  still  your  throbbing  heart. — ■ 
Come,  Rosalie! " 

Again  Ingraham  drew  near  Rosalie ;  but  she  again 


ITG  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

retreated ;  and  standing  against  the  wall  of  the  room, 
she  threw  her  robe  open,  and  putting  the  dagger's 
point  on  to  the  firm  round  bosom,  thus  disclosed,  she 
exclaimed,  wildly, — 

"  Keep  off!  "  Seducer !  miscreant !  You  shall  never 
touch  me  more !  I  have  trusted  you ;  and  God  knows 
that  relying  on  you  as  on  him,  my  love  for  you  was 
pure  and  holy  as  a  wife's.  I  will  not  be  your  mistress ! 
Take  but  one  step  nearer — stretch  but  your  arm  to- 
wards me — and  you  shall  see  that  I  choose  death  rather 
than  infamy! " 

"We  will  see  who  is  the  strongest,  then,  my  pretty 
tragedy  queen !  Yes,  indeed !  I  did  not  come  here  to 
be  thwarted  and  scorned  by  my  own  mistress — by  a 
woman  who  lives  by  my  bounty!"  "With  these 
words  he  rushed  forward,  and  clutched  at  his  victim ; 
but,  with  a  violent  effort  she  disengaged  herself,  and 
fled  past  him.  Ingraham  pursued  her,  maddened  with 
passion ;  but  suddenly,  just  as  he  was  about  again  to 
clasp  her,  Rosalie  fell  to  the  ground,  and  there,  with- 
out uttering  a  word,  she  lay  motionless  at  his  feet. 

He  stopped,  with  his  arms  still  extended,  and  gazed 
down  on  her  in  wonder.  He  saw  that  in  flying,  her 
foot  had  tripped  over  a  footstool,  and  that  thus  she 
had  fallen.  He  looked  down  on  her,  motionless,  as 
she  lay — half  fancying  she  was  feigning,  and  waiting 
for  him  to  raise  her  in  his  arms.  But  she  moved  not. 
Had  she  fainted?  Edward  knelt  down  beside  her. 
She  had  fallen  on  her  face.  He  raised  her  in  his 
arms,  and  snatching  a  cushion  from  a  sofa,  placed  her 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  177 

head  gently  on  it.  Hastily  he  parted  the  beautiful 
tresses  which  veiled  the  face.  Pale,  pale,  was  it  now ; 
and  the  scorn  still  on  the  lip  and  on  the  brow.  She  has 
fainted !  Still  further  back  he  throws  the  hair — so  long, 
that  it  fell  far  below  her  waist.  It  touches  his  face,  as 
he  flings  it  back — so  soft,  so  warm,  it  brings  the  tears 
to  his  eyes ;  and  in  accents  of  love,  he  whispers, 

'' Rosalie!  dear  Rosalie!"  Still  she  moves  not. 
He  puts  his  hand  on  her  heart — Oh,  God !  He  en- 
counters the  cold  hilt  of  the  dagger !  and  taking  his 
eyes  from  that  long-loved  face,  where  till  now  they  had 
rested,  he  beholds  the  deep  red  blood  trickling  down 
the  white  bosom,  and  staining  the  muslin  robe. 

Had  the  dagger  pierced  her  heart  by  chance,  as  she 
fell  ? — or  had  her  own  will  accomplished  the  work  it 
threatened  ?  That  secret  lies  between  herself  and  God. 
But  Edward's  conscience  almost  taxed  him  with  the 
deed ;  and  withdrawing  his  arm  from  under  her,  the 
corpse — for  she,  the  breathing,  living,  loving  woman, 
is  now  a  corpse — falls,  with  a  dull  heavy  sound  to  the 
ground.  Still  kneeling  by  her  side  he  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

"  Dead !  dead !  "  The  words  sounded  in  a  thousand 
tones  in  Edward's  ears,  as  there,  sobered  and  horror- 
stricken,  he  knelt.  Dead,  by  his  fault— almost  by  his 
hand !  This  appalling  thought  brought  the  world  and 
selfish  feelings  back  to  him  at  once.  Dead  !  murdered ! 
and  he  might  be  thought  the  murderer !  Hastily  he 
arose ;  looked  down  for  one  instant  with  horror  and 
fear,  no  longer  with  love  and  sorrow,  on  the  bleeding 


178  OUR   FIRST  FAMILIES. 

corse — then,  putting  out  the  light,  and  forgetting  all, 
in  his  cowardly  fear,  but  his  own  miserable  self,  he 
stole  noiselessly  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs — 
opened  the  street  door,  without  a  sound — closed  it 
carefully  behind  him — and  rushed  down  the  street, 
pursued  by  the  furies  of  death  and  hell. 

On  he  ran,  never  daring  to  pause  or  look  behind 
him — though  he  thought  he  heard  the  footsteps  of 
those  who  started  out  from  every  walk  and  corner,  to 
join  in  mad  pursuit  of  him.  But  it  was  only  fancy. 
A  discreet  watchman  or  two,  arroused  by  the  rapid 
footsteps,  started  from  the  tree  or  door-step  against 
which  he  was  leaning,  and  looked  curiously  after  the 
fugitive.  But,  as  no  one  followed,  and  there  was  no 
particular  disturbance  of  the  public  peace,  he  did  not 
feel  called  upon  to  interfere.  Perhaps  the  gentleman 
was  running  for  a  wager  I 

Ingraham  reached  his  aunt's  house  in  safety ;  and 
entering  as  noiselessly  as  a  thief,  he  did  not  breathe 
freely  until  he  found  himself  in  his  own  room,  the 
door  of  which  he  locked.  Then,  throwing  himself 
into  a  chair,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
tried  to  think. 

He  had  not  killed  the  girl — true ;  but  he  had  subse- 
quently acted  precisely  as  if  had  killed  her.  Were 
it  to  be  known  that  he  was  alone  with  her  in  her  cham- 
ber— that  he  had  crept  out  of  the  house,  and  run  as  if 
for  life,  till  he  reached  his  own  room — no  human  being 
would  be  convinced  that  he  had  not  murdered  her  with 
his  own  hand.     Withdrawing  his  right  hand  from  his 


OUR    FIRST   FAMILIES.  179 

face,  he  started  and  shuddered  with  a  new  horror.  It 
was  stained  with  blood !  And  his  clothes  were  also 
bloody,  where  he  had  held  the  dead  girl  in  his  arms — 
and  his  very  boots,  where  she  had  fallen  down,  and 
lay  across  his  feet.  All  was  blood,  blood !  He  looked 
fearfully  round  the  room,  and  in  the  tall  psyche  glass, 
where  he  had  so  admired  himself  in  the  morning,  he 
caught  sight  of  a  white  and  ghastly  face — and  that, 
too,  was  spotted  and  dabbled  with  blood.  Even  there 
the  crimson  stamp  of  murder  was  upon  him  !  He  felt 
that  he  was  going  mad — he  had  only  just  self-com- 
mand enough  to  refrain  from  shrieking  aloud  for  help. 


180  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER   XY. 


THE    GLASS    DOOR. 


It  has  been  stated  that  the  room  in  which  Helen 
was  imprisoned,  h-ad  a  glazed  door,  originally  commu- 
nicating with  another  apartment,  but  which  had  been' 
fastened  up,  and  a  sofa  placed  in  front  of  it — showing 
evidently  that  its  use  had  been  definitely  abandoned, 
in  the  present  apportionment  of  the  chambers,  and  that 
it  was  considered  merely  as  forming  a  portion  of  the 
partition  wall.  The  door  was  glazed,  for  about  half 
the  distance  from  the  top,  but  the  transparency  of  the 
glass  had  been  destroyed,  by  a  coating  of  white  paint. 

When  Helen  first  discovered  that  she  was  a  prisoner, 
and  had  been  decoyed  to  the  house  by  some  deep-laid 
plot  of  yillany,  this  glass  door  naturally  became  an 
object  of  scrutiny,  in  the  hope  that  it  might  possibly 
afford  some  way  of  escape,  which  her  enemies  had  for- 
gotten to  close  against  her.  The  examination,  how- 
ever, resulted  in  nothing  satisfactory.  The  door  was 
not  only  locked,  but,  as  she  discovered  by  removing 
the  sofa,  strongly  secured  by  large  nails,  driven  through 
the  door  and  into  the  solid  casement.     She  thought 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  181 

she  discovered,  however,  an  aperture  in  one  of  the 
highest  panes  of  glass ;  and  by  replacing  the  sofa,  and 
standing  partly  on  the  back,  and  supporting  herself 
by  clinging  to  the  posts  of  the  door  on  either  side,  she 
was  enabled  to  apply  her  eye  to  the  aperture,  and  thus 
obtain  a  partial  view  of  the  room  beyond.  It  appeared 
that  the  door  served  as  the  back  of  a  small  closet,  so 
constructed  as  to  be  used  by  the  occupant  of  either 
chamber,  or,  by  opening  both  doors,  to  serve  as  a 
thoroughfare  from  one  to  the  other.  By  the  present 
arrangement,  the  closet  belonged  exclusively  to  the 
back  chamber,  and  the  door  opening  into  the  front 
where  Helen  was  imprisoned,  was,  as  we  have  seen, 
firmly  closed. 

From  the  disposition  of  various  articles  in  the  closet, 
it  was  evident  that  the  door  opening  into  the  back 
chamber,  to  which  the  closet  now  belonged,  was  never 
closed. 

We  beg  the  reader  to  bear  in  mind  this,  brief  but 
minute  description  of  the  situation  and  arrangement 
of  the  two  chambers — as  it  is  indispensable  to  an  un- 
derstanding of  the  catastrophe  of  our  history. 

While  Helen  stood  thus  painfully  supporting  her- 
self, and  looking  into  the  adjoining  chamber,  the 
figure  of  a  young  girl  advanced  from  the  corner  of  the 
room  towards  the  hall,  which  she  could  not  see,  and 
passed  in  front  of  the  closet  door.  She  appeared  to 
be  in  great  excitement,  and  walked  rapidly  up  and 
down  the  room,  making  violent  gesticulations,  and 
apparently  weeping  convulsively.  Once  or  twice  she 
16 


182  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

stopped  in  front  of  Helen,  and  gazed  fixedly  upon  an 
open  letter  Trhich  she  held  in  her  hand,  but  which  she 
evidently  had  already  perused  more  than  once.  Her 
lips  moved,  but  Helen  could  not  hear  even  the  sound 
of  her  voice.  The  cavernous  space  of  the  intervening 
closet  deadened  and  swallowed  up  the  sound. 

At  length,  the  young  girl  ceased  walking,  and  threw 
herself  into  a  chair,  near  the  bed,  and  between  that 
and  a  little  table,  which  stood  directly  in  front  of  the 
closet  door — so  that  Helen  now  had  an  uninterrupted 
view  of  the  girl,  and  of  all  her  movements. 

After  leaning  back  for  a  few  moments  in  her  chair, 
the  girl  sat  erect,  laid  her  letter  on  the  table,  and 
drew  a  miniature  from  her  bosom,  upon  which  she 
gazed  intently,  until  she  was  obliged  to  wipe  away 
the  tears  that  flowed  fast  and  plenteously  down  her 
cheeks. 

The  face  of  the  young  girl,  though  changed  and 
clouded  with  weeping,  and  the  excitement  of  some 
terrible  passion,  was  extremely  beautiful.  Under  the 
influence,  apparently,  of  the  miniature  upon  which  she 
was  gazing,  the  traces  of  anger  and  hatred  gradually 
disappeared,  and  the  countenance  assumed  an  almost 
angelic  character  of  tenderness  and  trustfulness. 

Helen  was  powerfully  interested  in  this  young  and 
lovely  girl.  Had  she,  too,  like  herself,  been  betrayed 
into  this  infamous  abode  of  vice,  and  was  she,  like 
Helen,  bewailing  the  infatuation  which  had  perhaps 
placed  her  life  and  honour  in  peril  ?  Or  was  she  an 
older  inmate  of  this  place?     Had  she  already  fallen 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  183 

beneath  the  machinations  of  her  foes — for  that  face 
was  guilelessness,  was  purity  itself;  and  was  she  now 
himenting  her  cruel  and  hopeless  destiny  ?  Diverted 
for  a  moment  from  her  own  perils — like  all  noble  na- 
tures who  behold  another  in  suffering — she  vainly  en- 
deavoured to  devise  some  means  of  rendering  assis- 
tance to  her  sister  in  affliction.  But  what  could  she 
do?  Herself  a  prisoner — seduced  from  her  home, 
and  her  family  even  ignorant  of  where  she  had  set 
out  to  go — what  had  she  to  expect  ?  Long  before  as- 
sistance could  discover  her,  the  plotters  against  her, 
whoever  they  were,  and  whatever  might  be  their  de- 
signs, would  have  abundance  of  time  to  carry  out 
their  plans,  and  work  her  ruin.  This  thought  made 
her  frantic ;  and  forgetting  for  the  moment  the  stranger 
who  had  so  powerfully  excited  her  sympathies  she 
sprang  from  the  sofa,  ran  to  the  outside  windows, 
which,  as  we  have  said,  were  securely  fastened,  and 
then  commenced  calling  and  beating  furiously  at  the 
door,  until  her  strength  gave  way,  and  she  fell  on  the 
floor  in  a  swoon. 

Her  subsequent  interview  with  Ira  Henderson  had 
been  of  so  overpowering  an  excitement  as  to  drive  all 
thought  of  her  unhappy  neighbor  from  her  memory  ; 
but  w^hen  she  was  again  left  alone,  her  mind  reverted 
to  her  fellow  captive,  and  she  once  more  took  her  post 
of  observation. 

The  young  girl  was  seated  in  the  same  place  as  be- 
fore. But  she  had  taken  off  the  walking-dress  in 
wdiich  Helen  had  at  first  seen  her,  and  put  on  a  flow- 
ing night-wrapper,  made  of  very  thin  white  muslin, 


184  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

and  Tvhich  showed  the  exquisite  proportions  of  her 
young  and  slender  form,  as  if  it  had  been  draped 
around  a  statue.  Her  countenance  was  now  much 
more  composed,  and  an  expression  of  a  settled  and 
desperate  determination,  had  imparted  a  dignity  and 
character  to  her  face,  strangely  at  variance  with  its 
infantile  and  piquant  contour.  She  was  evidently 
passing  through  one  of  those  crises  of  life,  in  which 
years  are  condensed  to  hours  and  moments. 

Half  regretting  her  own  terrors,  and  the  despair 
with  which  she  contemplated  the  return  of  Henderson, 
as  he  had  promised — a  promise  which  she  could  not 
doubt  he  would  punctually  keep — she  continued  to 
watch  the  young  girl. 

The  letter  lay  open  on  the  little  table — and  the  mi- 
niature was  placed  directly  before  the  girl,  who, 
leaning  her  elbows  upon  the  table,  and  supporting  her 
head  on  her  hands,  gazed  at  it  intently — but  she  no 
longer  wept. 

At  this  moment,  a  slight  noise  was  heard  in  the 
hall — which  Helen  could  distinguish  through  her  own 
door,  although  she  could  hear  nothing  that  took  place 
in  the  room  adjoining.  Soon,  a  figure  passed  into  her 
field  of  vision,  and  stopping  on  the  side  of  the  table 
towards  the  door,  presented  its  profile  to  her  view. 

Either  her  senses  were  wandering,  or  it  was  the  face 
of  Edward  Ingraham !  The  face  now  turned  more 
fully  into  the  light,  and  she  saw  distinctly  that  it  was 
indeed  he — once  her  own,  her  still  loved  Edward, 
whose  false  and  shallow  baseness  had  broken  her 
heart,  and  disenchanted  her  life! 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  185 

What  did  he  here  ?  Alas  !  what  followed  enahled 
her  too  well  to  guess.  She  saw  the  young  girl  display 
her  little  dagger — saw  her  lips  pour  out  the  torrent  of 
w^ords  which  she  could  not  hear,  but  whose  meaning 
was  too  clearly  expressed  by  her  speaking  face,  now 
again  roused  and  distorted  with  emotion.  She  be- 
held, at  length,  the  pursuit  of  Ingraham,  and  the 
flight  of  the  girl,  and  finally  saw  her  fall  forward  on 
her  face. 

Then  Edward  came  into  sight  again — raised  the 
girl  in  his  arms ;  and  Helen  beheld,  at  the  same  in- 
stant as  he,  the  blood  upon  her  garments  and  her  bo- 
som— and  with  a  wild  scream  of  horror,  she  half-fell, 
half-leaped,  to  the  floor. — Dishonour,  madness,  death, 
were  around  and  before  her. 

But  this  was  the  moment  that  inspired  all  her  wis- 
dom, all  her  energy.  It  must  be  nearly  the  hour  at 
which  Ira  Henderson  had  promised  to  return  to  her ; 
and,  at  all  events,  her  screams  would  inevitably  send 
some  one  up  stairs. 

Quickly  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  she  sta- 
tioned herself  close  to  the  hinges  of  the  door,  so  that 
when  it  was  opened,  she  would  be  screened,  until  the 
person  had  entered  the  room.  Then,  to  dart  through 
the  door,  down  stairs,  and  so  into  the  street,  was  now 
her  only  hope. 

It  was  as  she  had  thought.     In  a  few  minutes  she 

heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  in  the  hall.     They 

approached  her  door— it  opened — and  Ira  Henderson 

entered.     Quick  as  thought,  or  as  the  bird  who  escapes 

16* 


186  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

his  cage,  she  darted  into  the  hall,  overthre^v  Mrs. 
Anthony  on  the  landing,  descended  to  the  front  door, 
which  was  only  fastened  by  the  dead-latch — leaped 
out,  and  ran,  half  wild  with  terror,  through  the  streets. 

But  her  senses,  quickened  by  the  imminence  of  her 
danger,  by  the  horror  inspired  by  all  she  had  wit- 
nessed, and  the  fear  of  being  overtaken,  did  not  de- 
sert her,  until  she  had  reached  her  own  home  and 
rang  the  bell.  The  door  was  instantly  opened  by 
Arthur,  who  had  just  come  back,  half  dead  from  alarm 
and  despair,  from  a  fruitless  visit  to  all  the  neigh- 
bouring police  stations,  and  who  now  joyfully  received 
his  sister's  fainting  form  in  his  arms. 

Emma  and  Kate,  who  had  been  frantic  at  their 
sister's  protracted  absence,  and  who  had  all  night 
watched  at  door  and  window,  carried  her  to  her  room, 
and  put  her  to  bed.  But  it  was  long  before  she  re- 
turned to  life — and  many  hours  ere  consciousness  and 
memory  were  restored.  Then  she  told  her  brother 
and  sisters  how  they  had  all  been  deceived,  and  what 
was  the  real  character  of  Mrs.  Anthony  and  her 
house.  She  did  not  relate  the  terrible  tragedy  she 
had  witnessed,  but  dwelt  upon  the  peril  she  had 
escaped,  and  the  means  by  which  she  had  regained 
her  liberty.  She  did  not  pronounce  the  names  of 
either  Ingraham  or  Henderson.  She  was  not  herself, 
as  yet,  sure  of  what  she  wished,  nor  of  what  might 
be  her  actual  duty.  Her  brain  was  still  weak  and 
confused;  and  thanking  Arthur  and  her  sisters  for 
their  kind  cares,  and  tenderly  inquiring  after  their 
mother,  she  begged  to  be  permitted  to  sleep. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  187 


CHAPTER  XVL 


THE   BLOODY    FOOTSTEPS. 


When  Ira  Henderson  returned  to  tlie  cliamber 
where  Helen  was  imprisoned,  the  State  House  clock 
was  striking  three — all  great  merchants  are  models  of 
punctuality,  as  well  as  of  all  the  other  virtues  !  And 
it  was  at  three  o'clock,  precisely,  that  he  had  promised 
to  return  and  complete  the  ruin  of  the  daughter  of  his 
dearest  friend,  having  previously  beggared  the  whole 
family,  according  to  the  strictest  requisitions  of  the 
commercial  law — {vide,  Spearbill,  passim  /) 

Not  seeing  his  victim,  he  advanced  into  the  room, 
supposing  that  she  had  shrunk  into  the  furthest  corner, 
or  had  perhaps  hidden  in  some  closet,  to  escape  his 
gentle  attentions. 

But  no  Helen  was  there !  Had  he  mistaken  the 
room  ?  No — the  door  was  locked,  and  he  had  opened 
it  with  the  key  which  he  took  from  his  own  pocket. 
Still,  bed-room  locks  were  all  alike,  and  one  chamber 
very  much  resembled  another.  He  had  been  too  much 
absorbed  in  his  principal  design,  to  notice  particularly 
either  the  locality  or  the  furniture  of  the  room ;  and 


188  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

lie  might  possibly  have  been  mistaken.  Thus  think- 
ing, and  still  very  much  puzzled,  and  very  much  in 
doubt,  he  returned  to  the  hall;  and  going  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  he  encountered  Mrs.  Anthony,  who  had 
just  recovered  from  the  effects  of  her  sudden  and  un- 
expected contact  with  the  flying  Helen,  and  was  slowly 
attempting  to  regain  her  feet. 

But  now,  as  he  looked  down,  he  found  himself  stand- 
ing in  a  little  puddle  of  some  dark-coloured  liquid, 
that  seemed  to  have  oozed  out  from  beneath  the  door 
of  the  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  against  the  case- 
ment of  which  he  was  almost  leaning.  He  was  by  na- 
ture coui'ageous,  and  his  nerves  were  firmly  strung : 
still,  a  shudder  ran  through  his  frame,  as  the  convic- 
tion flashed  upon  him,  that  he  was  standing  in  a  pool 
of  blood ! 

Hastily  stepping  back,  he  pointed  at  the  slippery 
spot,  and  demanded  of  Mrs.  Anthony,  who  now  strug- 
gled her  way  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  who  was  in  that 
room. 

"Oh,  nobody  but  a  young  friend  of  mine  from  the 
country — nobody  that  you  know  any  thing  of." 

"  But  see  there !  Look  at  that  blood ! — Open  the 
door,  instantly! " 

In  nameless  terror,  the  woman  obeyed ;  and  there, 
cold  and  dead,  lay  the  beautiful  Rosalie  1  The  blood, 
flowing  in  a  torrent  from  her  breast,  had  crept  along 
the  floor,  and  over  the  threshold,  to  bear  its  testimony 
to  the  awful  scene  within.  The  man  and  woman  looked 
at  one  another,  for  a  moment,  stupified.     Then  each, 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  189 

thinking  only  of  self  and  safety,  hastened  down  stairs 
— the  woman  to  return  to  her  room,  gather  up  her 
money  and  such  valuables  as  she  could  herself  carry 
away — for  she  knew  her  own  character  and  deeds  too 
well  to  run  the  risk  of  waiting  for  the  investigation  of 
this  bloody  transaction,  and  had  instantly  determined 
on  flight,  —  while  Henderson  himself  rushed  down 
stairs,  and  made  his  way  with  all  possible  secrecy  and 
speed,  to  a  distant  part  of  the  city — whence,  proceed- 
ing more  leisurely,  he  at  length  found  a  cab,  and 
waking  the  sleepy  driver,  he  jumped  in,  and  ordered 
him  to  drive  to  the  Walnut  street  ferry — intending  to 
cross  over  to  Camden,  walk  about  till  morning,  and 
return  to  the  city  with  the  passengers  by  the  early 
train — thus  carrying  out  the  idea  he  had  originally 
caused  to  be  believed  by  his  clerks,  that  he  had  gone 
to  Trenton. 

But  this  scheme,  natural  and  sagacious  as  it  was, 
failed.  A  captain  of  police,  returning  from  his  nightly 
rounds,  saw  Henderson  as  he  issued  from  the  house 
in  Cherry  street.  He  had  for  some  time  entertained 
strong  suspicions  of  the  character  of  this  house;  and 
now,  that  he  saw  the  great  quaker  merchant,  whose 
person  was  well  known  to  him,  coming  out  of  it,  clan- 
destinely, between  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  no  longer  felt  a  doubt.  Shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders at  the  discovery  he  had  made,  he  passed  on, 
muttering  to  himself, 

"  Who  would  have  thought  to  find  that  immaculate 
old  gentleman  in  such  business  ! — Well !  well !     The 


190  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

world  is  all  alike — saints  and  sinners,  Quakers  and 
all !  But  it's  nothing  to  me.  So  long  as  he  doesn't 
disturb  the  peace  of  the  public,  he  has  a  right  to  go 
where  he  pleases.  But  it's  lucky,  though,  that  some 
of  the  vampt/res'^  didn't  get  hold  of  him.  He  would 
have  been  a  nice  victim  for  them  to  suck ! " 

At  this  moment,  the  officer  was  met  by  one  of  the 
policemen  of  the  beat,  who  came  towards  him  with  that 
air  of  mysterious  importance,  which  no  one  but  a  po- 
liceman ever  has  equalled — excepting,  perhaps,  Lord 
Burleigb,  in  the  critic,  and  the  worthy  Baron  Pom- 
polino. 

"Captain  Butler,"  said  the  policeman,  ''I  am  sure 

there  is  something  very  queer  a  going  on  in  No. 

Cherry  street.  The  woman  of  the  house,  who  I've 
often  seen,  and  have  had  my  eye  on  for  some  time, 
has  just  come  out,  with  a  big  bundle  in  her  hand,  and 
cut  stick  as  if  the  devil  was  after  her.  That's  very 
suspicious,  I  think,  at  this  time  of  the  morning." 

"  I  think  so  too,  Wilkins.  "VYe  will  go  directly,  and 
see  what  all  this  means.  I  too  have  had  suspicions  of 
the  character  of  that  establishment." 

They  proceeded  to  the  house. — The  door  was  locked, 
and  no  attention  was  paid  to  the  bell.  After  satisfy- 
ing themselves  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  house, 
Captain  Butler,  in  view  of  the  very  suspicious  circum- 
stances of  which  he  was  cognizant,  became  convinced 

*  This  is  the  name,  in  police  slang,  for  those  creatures  who  prowl 
about  disreputable  houses,  and  levy  black  mail  upon  the  men  and 
women  who  visit  them. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  191 

that  some  deed  of  crime  and  darkness  had  been  perpe- 
trated within  its  walls.  He  therefore  decided  upon 
forcing  the  door  immediatelj,  as  the  first  step  neces- 
sary to  the  clearing  up  of  the  mystery.  Wilkins  was 
accordingly  sent  to  the  station-house,  where  a  com- 
plete set  of  skeleton  keys,  and  other  burglarious  in- 
struments, are  always  kept.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
returned,  and  the  front  door  was  opened. 

The  reader  is  already  aware  of  the  scene  that  awaited 
them.  Covering  up  the  body  of  the  dead  girl,  Captain 
Butler  commenced  seeking  for  some  clue  which  might 
lead  to  the  confirmation  of  the  conjectures  he  had 
already  formed  as  to  the  perpetrators  of  this  diabolical 
deed.  Tracing  the  blood  from  the  spot  where  the  girl 
had  fallen,  to  the  door  and  into  the  hall,  he  saw  by 
the  light  of  the  lantern,  two  distinct  footsteps  traced 
in  blood,  as  if  some  one  had  stepped  into  it  in  passing 
down  stairs.  These  footsteps,  which  were  wonderfully 
well  defined,  the  sagacious  officer  carefully  measured 
with  a  pocket  rule,  noting  down  the  measurement,  both 
of  length  and  breadth,  in  a  little  memorandum  book. 
He  then  took  a  pencil  of  red  chalk  from  his  pocket, 
and  marked,  as  carefully  as  he  could,  the  outline  of 
the  footsteps,  lest  the  blood  should  dry,  or  be  absorbed 
in  the  floor,  and  leave  no  trace. 

Meanwhile,  Wilkins  had  been  by  no  means  idle. 
He  had  detected  and  instantly  seized  upon  the  letter 
and  the  miniature  which  still  lay  on  the  table — but  he 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  mention  this  trifling  cir- 
cumstance to  his  superior.     He  was  now  despatched 


192  OUR  riRST  FAMILIES. 

for  the  coronor  in  all  haste,  while  Captain  Butler  him- 
self remained  to  watch  the  premises,  and  guard  them 
from  all  the  slightest  disturbance  of  the  least  detail, 
until  that  officer  should  arrive. 

Poor  Rosalie !  Mother  and  daughter  both  confided 
to  the  tender  care  of  the  coroner,  with  none  to  waft  a 
sigh  or  a  prayer  after  you,  on  your  journey  to  the  dark 
and  turbid  Styx !  Who  says  that  the  law  of  hereditary 
possessions  is  not  founded  in  nature?  At  least  des- 
tinies are  faithfully  transmitted.  The  moral  charac- 
teristics, far  more  than  the  mental  endowments,  impart 
themselves  to  the  offspring  of  our  loves. — Destiny  is 
immortal — she  will  not  pause  to  fashion  so  slight  a 
thing  as  the  fate  of  a  single  individual — she  sums  up, 
in  one  terrible  hieroglyphic,  the  catastrophes  of  a 
race. 


OUK  FIRST  FAMILIES.  193 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE   DEVIL   IN   WHITE   SATIN. 

Notwithstanding  the  solicitude  entertained  by  Mrs. 
Henderson,  lest  her  attempt  to  engage  Mrs.  Attarby 
for  her  dinner  and  conversazione  should  fail,  and  her 
self-congratulation  at  her  success,  there  were  moments 
when  she  almost  trembled  at  what  she  had  done,  for 
fear  of  its  possible  consequences  upon  her  own  stand- 
ing and  position.  Although  she  and  her  husband  re- 
presented, in  their  own  persons,  the  two  oldest,  v/eal- 
thiest,  and  most  decidedly  aristocratic  families  of  the 
two  divisions  of  the  quaker  sect,  and  thus  far  she  had 
found  no  opposition  to  her  wishes  or  views,  still  she 
knew  the  stolid  obstinacy  with  which  the  whole  body 
of  Friends,  whether  "gay  or  grave,"  maintained  a 
point,  when  it  had  once  been  taken.  She  recalled  to 
mind  the  persecution  of  an  eminently  pious  and  learned 
preacher  of  the  sect,  in  the  early  days  of  the  colony, 
who  had  been  exiled  and  finally  driven  to  open  apostacy, 
because  he  Avould  not  bow  down  implicitly  to  the  man- 
dates of  the  brethren,  in  some  minor  and  unimportant 
matters  of  church  discipline.  True,  the  outward  cha- 
17 


194  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

racter  and  conduct  had,  since  that  time,  undergone 
almost  as  great  changes,  as  the  face  of  the  city  itself, 
which  had  grown  from  a  puritanic  village  in  the  wilder- 
ness, to  one  of  the  gayest,  richest,  and  most  fashionable 
cities  on  the  continent.  Still  there  were  certain  ap- 
pearanees  which,  the  more  the  substance  of  the  early 
strictness  of  morals  had  disappeared,  were  the  more 
Stringently  insisted  on. 

Among  these,  the  two  most  important  and  inveterate, 
were  a  hatred  of  every  thing  appertaining  to  the  theatre, 
and  an  unconpromising  hostility  to  dancing.  Shak- 
speare  and  Cellarius  were  regarded,  in  connexion  with 
their  father  the  devil,  as  forming  the  trinity  of  iniquity. 
To  dance,  was  to  challenge  the  wrath  of  the  God  of 
David,  who  danced  before  the  ark ;  while  the  door  of 
the  theatre  was  shunned,  as  though  the  "pit"  to  which 
it  led,  was  the  bottomless  one  itself. 

Mrs.  Henderson,  although  heartily  despising  all 
this  detestable  cant,  had  never  dared  openly  to  set  her 
face  against  it.  To  attend  concerts,  and  allow  her 
daughter,  was  as  far  as  she  dared  to  go.  Indeed,  she 
had  not  been  able  to  accomplish  this,  without  a  serious 
struggle  with  her  husband — a  struggle  which  he  ob- 
stinately maintained,  and  in  which  he  evidently  put 
forth  all  his  powers,  for  the  purpose  of  accurately 
measuring  his  own  strength  against  that  of  his  wife, 
and  ascertaining  exactly  how  they  stood.  The  result 
was  a  complete  humiliation.  At  every  point  she  had 
shown  her  decided  superiority.  From  that  moment, 
he  retired  in  disgust  from  the  contest,  and  in  evei^y 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  195 

thing  relating  to  the  government  and  conduct  of  the 
family,  he  allowed  her  to  have  her  own  way — simply 
because  he  had  discovered  that  he  could  not  prevent  it. 

But  now  in  the  heat  of  her  animosity  for  her  rival, 
and  her  settled  determination  to  eclipse  her  on  the 
present  occasion,  she  had  gone,  she  feared,  a  step  too 
far.  While  Mrs.  Attarby,  under  her  maiden  name, 
was  still  on  the  stage,  Mrs.  Henderson  had  resolutely 
refused  to  visit  the  theatre — although  she  knew  that 
her  rival,  Mrs.  Valentine,  was  nightly  drawing  around 
her,  there,  the  fashionable  men  of  the  town,  and  her 
own  dull  parlours  were  deserted. 

On  the  other  hand,  she  reasoned,  that,  since  Miss 
Carlton,  the  celebrated  actress,  had  married  Mr.  At- 
tarby, an  undoubted  member  of  fashionable  society, 
and  had  finally  withdrawn  from  the  stage,  her  cha- 
racter and  position  had  necessarily  undergone  a  com- 
plete change, — and  this  had  ever  been  acknowledged 
by  herself  and  several  ladies  of  her  circle  had  for- 
mally recognised  her  as  the  wife  of  a  member  of  their 
class,  by  the  usual  pasteboard  civility  of  a  call. — This 
call  had  never  been  returned — being  resented  by  Mrs. 
Attarby  as  a  gross  and  impertinent  insult.  And  upon 
her  husband  attempting  to  remonstrate,  throwing  her- 
self into  the  attitude,  and  assuming  the  tone,  of  high 
tradegy,  she  had  overwhelmed  him  with  such  an  out- 
burst of  contempt,  disdain  and  indignation,  that  he 
had  fainly  run  out  of  the  house,  and  had  never  since 
had  courage  to  renew  the  subject. 

But  now,  not  only  had  the  acknowledged  leader  of 


190  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

tlie  creme  cle  la  creme  of  Philadelphia  society,  rene^ved 
this  happilj-got-over  acquaintance,  but  she  had  ac- 
tually stooped  to  beg  a  favour  of  her,  and  that  favour 
— horror  upon  horrors ! — to  appear  at  her  o^yn  house, 
in  the  very  character  in  which  she  had  been  shunned 
as  a  lesser — that  of  an  actress  ! 

But  it  was  now  too  late  to  recede.  The  whole  world 
— that  is,  the  two  or  three  hundred  families  composing 
cliques  of  what  chooses  to  style  itself  our  good  society 
— heard,  first  with  credulity,  and  finally  with  asto- 
nishment and  ill-concealed  envy — that  Mrs.  Attarby 
was  to  appear  in  character,  at  Mrs.  Henderson's  con- 
versazione, and  read  one  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  to  the 
assembled  bigotry,  hypocrisy  and  stupidity,  of  the 
capital  of  quakerism! 

The  news  created  an  intense  sensation.  Mrs. 
Glacee,  who  was  an  ardent  partisan  of  Mrs.  Valentine, 
and  saw  in  this  a  skilful  manoeuvre  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Henderson,  to  throw  the  grand  affair  of  her  patron 
into  the  shade,  complained  bitterly  to  her  friend,  Mr. 
Attarby,  permitting  his  wife  to  thus  go  over  to  the 
enemy. 

"Permit  my  wife,  my  dear!"  Mr.  Attarby  had  re- 
plied, shrugging  his  shoulders,  which  was  now  the 
only  manifestation  he  allowed  himself  of  his  feelings 
for  his  wife;  "permit  her,  Mrs.  Glacee!  Why  I  see 
you  know  nothing  whatever  of  the  worthy  lady  whom 
I  have  the  honour  of  calling  my  wife.  I  do  believe 
that,  had  Mrs.  Henderson  requested  her  to  dance  a 
pas  seul  on  the  tight-rope,  over  her  dinner-table,  she 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  197 

would  liave  willinglj  attempted  it,  had  it  only  been  for 
the  pleasure  of  spiting  me.  My  only  hope  is  in  ab- 
ject submission.  I  have  learned  my  duty  too  well,  to 
attempt  expressing  my  wishes  in  my  own  household. 
It  would  be  deemed  little  short  of  high  treason ! " 

"Why,  then,  did  you  marry  her?  " 

"  From  much  the  same  motive  that  Mrs.  Henderson 
has  invited  her  to  dinner — the  gratification  of  my 
vanity.  I  supposed  that  it  would  be  a  grand  thing  to 
carry  off  a  great  actress,  whom  all  the  world  was 
going  mad  about, — a  grand  thing.  And  so,  my  dear, 
it  was — a  very  grand  thing,  indeed ! — altogether  too 
grand  for  a  mere  common  mortal  like  myself.  I  have 
already  made  arrangements  with  a  celebrated  taxi- 
dermist— don't  be  frightened  at  the  name,  it  is  only  a 
maker  of  bird-mummies — to  have  myself  stuffed  and 
hung  up  in  a  cage,  after  my  death,  as  a  warning  to 
all  ambitious  young  men  who  are  tempted  to  marry 
actresses.  I  mean  to  have  for  a  legend,  '  Died  of  the 
Dagger  and  Bowl,  a  sacrifice  to  Melpomene  ! '  Oh, 
what  a  precious  egregious  fool  I  was !  Were  it  not 
for  the  consolations  of  your  friendship,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Glac6e,  I  should  not  care  how  soon  I  and  the  taxider- 
mist aforesaid  made  acquaintance." 

"Thank  you.  Granger,  thank  you!  I  am  indeed 
happy  at  being  a  solace  in  your  sorrows.  But  has 
Mrs.  Attarby  condescended  to  inform  you  of  her  visit 
to  Mrs.  Henderson?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  A  couple  of  mornings  ago,  she  entered 
the  breakfast-room  through  a  window  opening  into 
17* 


198  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

the  church-yard,  where  she  had  been  training  an  En- 
glish setter,  v/hich  she  had  recently  purchased,  by 
making  him  set  the  grave-stones.  Coming  up  to  the 
table,  where  I  was  eating  my  solitary  breakfast,  she 
said,  with  such  a  courtesy  as  Lady  Macbeth  used  to 
make  to  old  Banquo, — 

''  Mr.  Attarby,  we  are  honoured  with  an  invitation 
to  dine  with  Mrs.  Henderson  on  Wednesday  next.  Is 
it  your  pleasure  to  go  ?  " 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  madam,"  I  replied ;  *'  only, 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  until  late, 
owing  to  a  previous  engagement  at  Mrs.  Valentine's. 
But  you  need  not  wait  for  me." 

"  Thank  you,  sir !  "  said  my  incomparable  wife,  with 
another  courtesy,  but  this  time  short  and  jerking,  like 
a  school-girl's,  that  has  got  a  holiday.  Then,  calling 
her  dog,  she  leaped  out  into  the  graveyard  again,  and 
resumed  her  occupation  of  'flushing'  the  graves  of 
old  Mr.  Topsawyer's  congregation.  Oh,  she's  a  jewel, 
a  real  Koh-i-noor !  I  only  wish  there  were  a  Crystal 
Palace,  where  I  could  deposit  her  permanently  among 
the  curiosities ! " 

''  Poor  Granger !  Indeed,  you  lead  a  hard  life !  But 
I  must  positively  drive  you  away.  There  are  a  thou- 
sand arrangements  yet  to  complete  for  our  matinee, 
and  I  have  promised  to  be  with  Mrs.  Valentine  early." 

*'Are  you,  too,  getting  cruel,  Eunice  ?     I  came " 

"Hush,  you  naughty  man!  "  she  interrupted,  putting 
her  hand  on  his  mouth,  and  blushing ;  "  I  shall  of 
course  see  you  at  the  concert  on  Wednesday;  but  if 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  199 

you  have  anything  very  particular  to  say,  I  shall  be 
at  home  to-morrow  evening." 

*'A  thousand  thanks  !  "  said  he,  detaining  her  hand, 
and  kissing  it  warmly.  "I  have  indeed,  something 
very  particular  to  say  to  you — do  not  fail  me." 

The  arrangements  at  Mrs.  Henderson's  were  con- 
ducted without  any  of  the  "note  of  busy  preparation," 
the  "sound  of  hammers  closing  rivets  up,"  which  per- 
vaded the  "rival  house."  Indeed,  the  cue  with  our 
ultra-fashionable  establishment,  was,  to  ignore  the  fact 
that  any  "preparations"  for  anything,  were  at  any 
time  necessary.  It  was  supposed  that  the  household 
establishment  being  complete  in  all  its  departments,  it 
was  of  course  always  ready  for  any  event  that  could 
possibly  occur.  All  "preparation,"  even  for  heaven, 
would  be  considered,  among  the  elite,  as  insufferably 
vulgar.  The  apology  of  that  most  gentlemanly  and 
aristocratic  prince,  Charles  the  Second,  to  the  atten- 
dant courtiers,  for  being  so  long  in  dying,  was  in  the 
very  highest  "good  society"  tone. 

Mrs.  Henderson  had  but  one  anxiety — to  ascertain 
whether  her  leading  and  most  influential  subjects  in 
the  fashionable  world,  would  not  openly  revolt  against 
meeting  an  actress ;  and  it  was  while  discussing  this 
point  with  Miss  Jenkins, — who  had  already  engaged 
herself  to  Mrs.  Valentine,  but  would  have  given  one 
of  her  red  ribbons  if  she  could  have  been  at  both 
places  at  once, — that  Mrs.  Henderson  made  the  ob- 
servation which  called  out  Mrs.  Attarby's  hon  mot  re- 
peated to  her  husband  at  the  matinee  musicale. 


200  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

As  for  Mrs.  Attarby,  she  passed  the  morning  of  her 
eventful  Wednesday,  in  taking  a  long  ride  into  the 
country,  dressed  in  boots  and  trowsers,  and  riding  en 
cavalier,  much  to  the  horror  and  consternation  of  the 
neighbours  and  inhabitants  of  that  portion  of  the  com- 
monwealth through  which  her  route  lay.  She  was 
followed  by  a  groom,  and  her  new  pet,  the  setter, 
whom  she  intended  to  give  his  jfirst  trial  at  live  game, 
to  see  how  far  he  had  profited  by  his  exercises  among 
the  dead.  The  groom  carried  a  light  double-barrelled 
fowling-piece,  and  rode  about  two  rods  behind  his  mis- 
tress. The  dog — looking  not  at  all  confident  that  he 
had  got  his  lesson,  and  feeling,  like  all  other  young 
commoners,  that  he  stood  a  pretty  fair  chance  of 
getting  plucked — lagged  reluctantly  behind.  Alto- 
gether, it  was  a  droll  enough  procession — yet  the  ama- 
teur Amazon  who  led  it,  returned  the  wondering  stare 
of  the  rustics  and  suburbanites,  with  a  look  of  equal 
astonishment,  as  much  as  to  say,  "What  are  all  these 
people  wondering  at?  " 

Mrs.  Henderson's  fears  as  to  the  reception  her  bold 
measure  for  popularity  would  meet,  from  the  world 
over  which  she  presided,  proved  to  be  entirely  ground- 
less— at  least  among  those  who  had  been  invited. — 
Perhaps  here  and  there  a  family  who  had  expected, 
but  had  not  received,  that  honour,  might  criticise  the 
innovation  upon  the  manners  and  morals  of  the  chosen 
people,  who  were  thus  defiling  themselves  with  the 
sinful  pleasures  of  the  ungodly.  But  their  censure 
was  scarcely  heard  beyond  their  own  walls,  and  never 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  201 

readied  the  elevated  atmosphere  in  which  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson moved.  In  fact,  she  was  not  so  entirely  with- 
out precedent,  as  she  had  at  first  supposed.  Several  of 
the  brethren,  who  had  been  seeking  for  reasons  for  not 
declining  the  invitation,  had  remembered  or  discovered 
that  William  Penn  himself  had  spent  some  years  in 
the  society  of  the  lords  and  ladies  of  King  James' 
court,  and  in  high  favour  with  that  faithful  subject 
of  the  Pope  of  Rome,  and  in  familiar,  daily  inter- 
course with  the  king  himself — living  in  luxury,  keep- 
ing his  coach  and  four  horses ;  and  in  short,  with  the 
single  exception  of  the  rude  vulgarity  of  keeping  his 
hat  on,  when  well-bred  persons  took  theirs  oif,  living 
in  all  respects  a  gay  and  luxurious  life.  With  so  il- 
lustrious an  example  before  them,  they  felt  fully  jus- 
tified in  putting  ofi",  on  this  occasion,  the  severity  of 
their  principles,  and  following  the  bent  of  their  incli- 
nations. 

Mrs.  Henderson's  saloons  were  consequently  filled. 
Scarcely  an  invitation  had  been  declined ;  and  all  ar- 
rived with  a  punctuality  which  showed  the  interest  felt 
in  the  unusual  character  of  the  expected  entertain- 
ment. She  was  neither  disappointed  nor  displeased 
to  learn,  as  she  did  by  a  brief  message  sent  from  the 
store,  that  her  husband  had  been  called  out  of  town  on 
business,  and  would  be  absent  from  the  dinner.  Such 
occurrences  were  not  unusual,  and  the  friends,  who 
were  no  strangers  to  the  differences  that  existed  be- 
tween the  ostensible  and  real  head  of  the  family,  were 
accustomed  to  dispense  with  his  presence,  as  a  matter 


202  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

of  course,  on  all  occasions  of  hilarity.  Both  his  wife 
and  his  guests,  in  fact,  considered  his  absence  as  the 
very  best  boon  he  could  bestow  upon  them,  and  would 
have  been  greatly  annoyed  and  restrained,  if,  on  the 
present  occasion,  he  had  abstained  from  his  usual  habit. 

The  dinner,  notwithstanding  the  brilliant  prospect, 
was  destined  to  be  the  special  mortification  of  the 
proud  hostess.     Mrs.  Attarby  did  not  come ! 

At  the  last  moment,  she  had  sent  a  note,  briefly 
saying  that,  having  returned  too  late  from  the  coun- 
try, to  dress  in  time  for  Mrs.  Henderson's  dinner,  she 
must  deprive  herself  of  the  pleasure  of  attending  it. 
This,  however,  would  make  no  difference  with  the 
reading,  in  the  evening.  If  Mrs.  Henderson  approved, 
Mrs.  Attarby  would  commence  the  reading  precisely 
at  eight  o'clock. 

Bitterly  chagrined  as  she  was,  Mrs.  Henderson  de- 
termined to  conceal  the  disappointment,  and  make 
the  best  of  the  case  that  circumstances  would  permit. 
She  could  even  say,  if  any  remarks  were  made  on  the 
absence  of  Mrs.  Attarby,  that  she  was  not  expected 
to  arrive  until  evening,  after  dinner  was  over,  and  in 
time  for  the  reading.  She  therefore  sent  a  polite 
message  of  acquiescence  to  Mrs.  Attarby,  and  re- 
turned to  the  drawing-room,  where  the  guests  were 
waiting  dinner,  with  that  constrained  and  yawning  air, 
(although  nobody  actually  did  yawn,)  which  always  per- 
vades that  solemn  moment  even  among  the  best-bred 
company,  unless  it  is  enlivened  with  wit,  and  brilliant 
conversation.     As  even  Mrs.  Henderson  could  evoke 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  203 

neither  of  these  from  the  prim-looking  ladies  ana 
solemn  gentlemen,  punctiliously  arranged  about  the 
drawing-rooms,  discussing  with  imperturbable  polite- 
ness and  assiduity,  last  first-day's^' meeting,"  the  me- 
lancholy condition  of  the  funds  of  the  Friends'  ragged 
school  in  Baker  street,  and  the  effects  of  the  late  tariff 
on  rail-road  iron  and  anthracite  coal, — it  may  well  be 
imagined  that  the  announcement  of  dinner  was  a  wel- 
come interruption. 

Although  the  company  at  this  dinner  actually  did, 
without  any  pretension  or  affectation,  embrace  nearly 
all  the  "  first  families  "  of  the  city — there  being  scarce- 
ly a  name  that  did  not  occur  in  the  early  and  romantic 
history  of  the  colony — yet,  not  only  would  the  affair 
have  been  pronounced  insufferably  dull  by  a  stranger, 
but  it  was  felt  to  be  so  among  themselves.  The  men 
were  either  old,  or  middle-aged,  without  ever  having 
been  young.  They  might  have  been  inhabitants  of 
the  moon,  w^here  astronomers  tell  us  there  is  no  atmo- 
sphere— so  silent,  so  withered,  so  joyless,  did  they  ap- 
pear. They  spoke  rarely,  and  in  hard,  dry  monotonous 
voices ;  and  although  all  the  forms  of  society  were  sump- 
tuously observed,  and  every  thing  was  carried  on  scru- 
pulously en  rhgle,  still,  one  who  knew  their  tastes  and 
habits,  would  have  easily  divined  that  they  would  have 
been  much  more  at  home,  and  enjoyed  themselves 
much  better,  over  a  plate  of  warmed-up  ham  and  eggs 
and  a  cup  of  slop  coffee,  at  a  shilling  eating-house, 
than  in  discussing  the  real  chefs  d'ceuvres  of  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson's admirable  cuisine. 


204  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

As  for  the  ladies,  they  were  more  talkative,  but  not 
less  unsociable,  than  the  men.  The  trivial  details  of 
the  household  and  the  nursery — the  high  prices  of 
marketing,  and  the  tribulations  of  ''help,"  formed  the 
staple  of  their  conversation.  Prohibited  by  the  habits 
and  customs  of  their  sect,  from  any  but  a  very  moderate 
indulgence  in  that  staple  commodity  of  conversation, 
scandal — and  avoiding,  by  mutual  consent,  the  deli- 
cate topic  of  dress,  upon  -which  the  two  ranks  of  strict 
and  gay  Quakers  were  chiefly  at  variance — having  no 
common  theme  of  interest,  criticism,  or  enthusiasm,  in 
literature  or  art — these  victims  of  "exclusive"  dul- 
ness,  were  really  objects  of  commiseration.  One 
longed  for  somebody  to  throw  a  summerset,  knock 
down  a  waiter,  or  dance  a  jig  among  the  dishes — 
merely  by  way  of  getting  up  a  sensation ! 

But  at  length  the  dreary  dinner  drew  to  a  close. 
Mrs.  Henderson  had  managed  to  have  it  understood 
that  Mrs.  Attarby  had  sent  word  that  she  would  com- 
mence her  reading  precisely  at  eight ;  and  a  general 
and  furtive  examination  of  watches  testified  the  anxiety 
with  which  the  great  event  of  the  evening  was  awaited. 
Many  of  the  guests,  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  in- 
dulging their  curiosity,  without  an  active  participation 
in  the  sin,  were  about  to  listen  to  Shakspeare  and  an 
actress,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives.  All  had 
formed  extravagant  anticipations  on  the  subject,  and 
looked  forward  with  a  feeling  more  nearly  approaching 
excitement,  than  they  had  perhaps  ever  before  expe- 
rienced. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  205 

At  length,  Mrs.  Henderson — who  had  made  the 
apology  for  the  absence  of  her  husband,  on  the  plea  of 
his  being  out  of  town  on  business,  rose,  and  taking  the 
arm  of  the  gentleman  on  her  left,  led  the  way  to  the 
drawing-room,  the  whole  company,  male  and  female, 
following — there  being  no  after-dinner  drinking  among 
the  gentlemen,  as  among  the  world's  people.  In  this 
eminently  "exclusive"  circle,  all  enjoyment  of  either 
sex  was  impartially  excluded. 

On  the  way  from  the  dining-table,  another  general 
examination  of  watches  took  place,  producing  the 
satisfactory  discovery  that  it  lacked  but  twenty  minutes 
to  the  commencement  of  the  evening's  performance. 
This  interval  was  very  fairly  got  through,  among  the 
guests,  in  disposing  themselves  conveniently,  for  seeing 
and  hearing;  and  in  the  silent  enjoyment  of  the  few 
minutes  after  dinner  in  which  the  stomach  appears  to 
be  stimulated  into  a  consciousness  fo  its  own  satis- 
faction at  the  offering  it  has  received,  and  gratefully 
imparts  its  own  sensations  to  the  other  members,  or- 
gans, and  viscera,  of  the  body. 

Mrs.  Henderson,  however,  was  uneasy.  Her  dear 
friend,  Mrs.  Attarby,  had  already  treated  her  to  one 
mortifying  disappointment — might  it  not  be  possible 
that  she  had  another  in  store  for  her  ?  Reflecting  on 
the  well-known  eccentricity  of  the  actress,  she  did  not 
deem  such  a  result  at  all  impossible. 

But  she  had  done  her  friend,  Mrs.  Attarby,  great 
injustice.    At  precisely  eight  o'clock,  the  great  actress, 
accompanied  by  Mrs.  Captain  Wallingford,  drove  to 
18 


OUR   FIRST  FAMILIES.  206 

the  door ;  and  going  up  stairs,  and  hastily  divesting 
themselves  of  hoods  and  shawls  entered  the  drawing- 
room  arm  in  arm.  Mrs.  Henderson,  who  had  sent  a 
reluctant  invitation  to  the  doubtful  Mrs.  Captain 
Wallingford,  at  Mrs.  Attarbj's  earnest,  and  almost 
imperative  request — which  she  had  called  personally 
to  enforce,  the  next  day  after  she  had  received  Mrs. 
Henderson's  visit — went  forward,  smilingly,  to  receive 
the  new  and  anxiously  expected  guest,  and  her  com- 
panion. 

But,  as  they  approached,  the  quaker  hostess,  pre- 
pared as  she  thought  she  was,  for  the  worst,  started, 
grew  very  red,  and  involuntarily  drew  back.  Ee- 
covering  herself,  however,  from  an  embarrassment  of 
which  neither  of  the  ladies  who  had  apparently  caused 
it,  took  the  least  notice,  she  led  them  to  the  upper 
part  of  the  room,  where,  beneath  a  brilliaat  chande- 
lier, artfully  shaded  so  as  to  throw  the  whole  of  its 
light  downwards  in  a  brilliant  flood,  a  table  had  been 
placed,  containing  a  quarto  book — the  devil's  bible, 
some  of  the  more  strict  among  the  quakers  had  called 
it — and  a  glass  of  water.  Mrs.  Attarby,  with  a 
stately  bow  to  the  company,  immediately  seated  her- 
self, placing  her  friend,  Mrs.  Wallingford,  on  her 
right  hand. 

Her  appearance  occasioned  an  immediate  sensation 
— or  rather  commotion — which  soon  grew  to  conster- 
nation— as  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Henderson's  disturb- 
ance on  first  meeting  the  two  ladies,  became  revealed 
to  the  public  view. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  207 

Without  too  far  encroacliing  upon  the  domains  of 
those  dainty  historians  of  scollops  and  corsages,  whose 
genius  and  researches  illustrate  the  pages  of  our 
fashionable  magazines,  we  must  recall  to  the  recollec- 
tion of  our  readers,  the  fashionable  style  of  corsage 
in  which,  some  years  ago,  the  female  bosom  did  not 
ensconce  itself.  This  fashion,  borrowed  from  the 
courts  of  Charles  II.  and  Louis  XIY.,  had  a  brilliant 
career  in  the  United  States;  and  many  of  the  vir- 
tuous matrons  of  the  present  day — and  upon  their 
virtue  I  don't  intend  the  slightest  reflection — could 
not  deny  that,  in  their  girlhood,  they  had  displayed 
to  the  public,  in  drawing-room,  ball  and  theatre, 
charms  which  are  now-a-days  left  to  the  imaginations 
of  all,  save  he  who  is  legally  constituted  the  bosom'y 
lord  of  his  elected. 

At  the  time  of  which  we  write,  this  fashion  had 
reached  its  highest — or  rather  its  lowest — point.  But 
the  quaker  ladies,  whether  "  gay"  or  sedate,  had  re- 
solutely rejected  this  fashion — I  am  willing  to  believe 
as  much  from  an  innate  sense  of  modesty  and  decency, 
as  from  conventional  prudery.  Many  ladies,  even 
among  the  world's  people,  stopped  somewhere,  in  the 
dangerous  rivalry  produced  by  this  fashion — some  from 
modesty,  others,  like  Mrs.  Glacee,  from  necessity ; 
while  such  ladies  as  Mrs.  Valentine  and  Mrs.  Balder- 
skin,  heedless  of  every  thing  but  the  rivalry  of 
vanity,  persevered  in  the  most  astounding  eiforts  to 
outstrip  one  another  in  the  adoption  of  the  latest 
mode. 


208  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Mrs.  Attarbj — who,  it  was  believed,  had  given  the 
first  impetus  to  this  fashion,  by  adopting  it  on  the 
stage — had  a  grand  and  imposing,  rather  than  a  beau- 
tiful, face.  Her  form,  too,  was  majestic,  but  some- 
what clumsy;  and  her  feet  and  hands  were  by  no 
means  graceful  or  delicate.  But  she  possessed  an  ex- 
quisite bust,  of  such  ravishing  and  harmonious  pro- 
portions, exactly  composed  of  delicacy  and  fulness, 
only  fully  realized  by  Greek  statues  and  English  wo- 
men. This  was  the  point  upon  which  her  personal 
vanity  concentrated  itself;  and,  thoroughly  disdaining 
every  body,  she  set  even  probability  at  defiance,  by 
the  manner  in  which  she  was  dressed,  on  the  present 
occasion.  Her  dress  was,  as  was  usual  with  her,  of 
white  satin,  cut  very  low  on  the  shoulders,  and  worn 
literally  without  any  tucker !  The  gay  and  wicked 
Mrs.  Wallingford,  who  owed  the  world  a  spite  for  its 
severe  commentaries  and  unfounded  criticisms  upon 
herself,  gladly  fell  in  with  her  friend's  scheme  for 
punishing  the  hypocritical  prudery  of  Mrs.  Hender- 
son, and  at  the  same  time  having  some  splendid  fun 
for  themselves,  and  had  strictly  followed  her  friend's 
example.  When  two  mischievous,  reckless,  indepen- 
dent, and  lovely  women  set  out  for  a  "  spree  " — it  is  not 
so  light  a  matter  as  a  quarter  of  a  yard  of  chemisette, 
more  or  less,  that  can  deter  them ! 

Mrs.  Attarby,  perfectly  grave  and  dignified,  and 
without  seeming  to  be  aware  of  having  excited  any 
particular  remark,  proceeded  to  make  her  usual  pre- 
parations for  commencing  her  reading — while  Mrs. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  209 

Wallingford,  stuffing  her  handkerchief  into  her  mouth, 
grew  purple  in  the  face,  from  suppressed  laughter. 

At  length  Mrs.  Attarbj  opened  the  book,  turned 
over  the  leaves  until  she  came  to  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
and  looked  round  upon  her  audience.  But  she  saw 
only  their  backs !  First,  the  elder  ladies,  shocked 
and  indignant,  stole  off  quietly,  taking  their  daugh- 
ters with  them ;  then  the  middle-aged,  both  matrons 
and  maids,  followed  in  a  body — and  lastly  the  gentle- 
men, who,  as  obedient  husbands  and  brothers,  did  not 
dare  to  remain,  went  out  reluctantly,  casting  many  a 
"longing,  lingering  look  behind." 

Mrs.  Attarby  paused — gravely  waited  until  the  last 
of  the  discomfited  enemy  had  disappeared,  and  then 
turning  with  a  look  of  triumph  towards  her  friend, 
the  two  women  burst  into  a  long  and  uncontrollable 
fit  of  laughter. 

Then,  rising,  and  taking  her  beloved  "  devil's  bible  " 
under  her  arm, 

"Come,  pet,"  said  she;  "we  must  beat  a  retreat. 
We  have  stormed  the  polar  snows ;  we  must  not  wait 
till  they  burn  Moscow  about  our  ears ! " 

As  they  made  their  way  to  the  hall,  they  saw  Mrs. 
Henderson,  sitting  in  the  corner  of  a  sofa,  her  face 
covered  with  a  pocket-handkerchief,  and  weeping 
with  vexation  and  rage.  Pausing,  and  assuming  an 
attitude  of  inexpressible  grandeur,  the  great  trage- 
diennne  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  that  made  thousands 
thrill,  and  stretching  her  arms  towards  her  discom- 
fited enemy — 

18* 


210  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

*'  Oh,  may  such  purple  tears  be  always  shed, 
From  all  that  wish  the  downfall  of  a  house!  " 

and,  with  a  loud  "ha!  ha!"  the  two  ladies  hurried 
into  the  hall,  where  they  found  a  maid  with  their 
wrappers,  and  rushing  into  their  carriage,  drove  away. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  211 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 


THE  TWO  SISTERS. 


Madame  Felice  de  Saintlieu  was  the  daughter  of  one 
of  the  impoverished  but  noble  houses  of  the  old  nobility 
of  France.  Its  history  was  that  of  nearly  all  the  noble 
families  of  the  ancienne  noblesse,  who  had  clung  to  the 
fortunes  of  the  doomed  dynasty  of  the  Bourbon  race. 
The  fall  of  Louis  XVI.  was  attended  by  the  destruc- 
tion of  a  nation  of  noble  and  princely  houses,  who,  un- 
able to  defend  the  sovereign  whom  they  loved  with  the 
same  unquestioning  faith  with  which  they  worshipped 
their  God,  knew  nor  dreamed  of  any  other  destiny 
than  to  suffer  and  die  for  both.  The  world  has  never 
recorded  so  sublime  a  catastrophe,  as  the  extinction  of 
a  whole  race,  who  represented  the  chivalry  and  nobility 
of  ten  centuries,  from  the  crowning  of  Pepin,  king  of 
France,  in  the  monastery  of  St.  Denys,  by  the  hands 
of  Stephen  the  Third — nor  have  mankind  ever  beheld 
a  loftier  spectacle  of  the  greatness  of  true  devotion, 
than  the  stern,  silent,  and  disdainful  alacrity  with  which 
they  accepted,  without  a  murmur,  the  fate  which  their 
sovereign  and  their  queen  had  been  the  first  to  share.  It 
was  the  cowardly  and  blood-thirsty  mob,  drunk  with 


212  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

blood  and  mad  with  power,  that  trembled  and  shrunk 
aghast  from  its  own  deed — the  victory  was  with  the 
victims. 

The  grandfather  of  Madame  de  Saintlieu  had  suf- 
fered on  the  scaffold,  in  1793 ;  and  his  wife  and  infant 
son  had  been  permitted  to  escape  from  France,  and 
join  the  emigrants,  who  awaited,  on  the  continent,  with 
fearful  forebodings,  the  course  of  the  storm  that  was 
sweeping  over  France.  Under  the  Empire,  she  had 
returned  to  Paris,  where  she  shortly  after  died — leaving 
her  son,  a  young  man  of  seventeen,  the  sole  represen- 
tative of  the  ancient  name  of  de  Lussac.  Having  ad- 
hered to  the  cause  of  the  emperor,  as  the  only  hope 
of  his  country's  existence,  he  distinguished  himself  in 
several  campaigns ;  and,  at  twenty-one,  had  married 
the  daughter  of  the  Count  de  Morny,  the  history  of 
whose  family  was  identical  with  that  of  his  own.  Fol- 
lowing the  emperor  to  Moscow,  he  perished  in  the 
Berizena,  leaving  a  widow  and  two  daughters,  one  of 
ten  years  of  age,  the  other  an  infant. 

Madame  de  Morny,  whose  fortune  was  greatly 
straitened  from  the  political  disasters  that  had  over- 
taken her  family,  and  who  mourned  her  husband  w^ith 
deep  and  unconquerable  grief,  withdrew  from  the 
world,  and  dedicated  her  life  to  the  education  of  her 
daughters.  Kosalie,  the  eldest,  was  a  sprightly  and 
beautiful  creature ;  and,  as  she  went  with  her  mother 
every  morning  to  mass  at  the  church  of  St.  Sulpice, 
many  were  the  curious  glances  which  she  secretly  threw 
about  her,  at  the  gloomy  and  silent  old  world  of  St. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  213 

Germain,  along  which  they  passed.  Many,  too,  were 
the  looks  of  admiration  excited  by  her  fresh  and  deli- 
cate beauty,  which  were  cast  upon  her  by  the  young 
students  of  the  Luxembourg  and  the  quartier  latin. 
Her  mother,  wrapped  in  her  devotion,  or  absorbed  in 
sad  memories  of  the  past,  saw  none  of  these  signs  of 
homage  to  her  daughter's  beauty :  until  one  day,  when 
returning  from  a  visit  of  charity  she  had  been  paying 
in  the  neighbourhood — for  her  class,  however  reduced 
in  fortune  or  position,  never  forget  the  sacred  duty  to 
the  poor — she  found  little  Felice  alone  with  her  nurse. 
Rosalie  was  gone ;  and  as  she  did  not  return  at  night- 
fall, her  mother  began  to  feel  the  most  intense  anxiety, 
and  was  about  hastening  to  the  police  station,  to  make 
inquiries  and  institute  a  rigid  search,  when  a  commis- 
sionah'e  made  his  appearance  at  the  gate  of  the  hotel, 
and  handing  her  a  letter,  immediately  disappeared. 
It  was  from  Rosalie : — 

"  My  Mother  " — began  the  letter — "  my  own  beloved 
mother !  What  have  I  done !  I  shall  never  see  you 
more !  I  am  carried  far,  far  away  from  you !  Oh,  I 
love,  my  mother,  I  love !  and  for  this  love,  I  have  sac- 
rificed all — you — my  sister — my  name — but  not  my 
honour,  dear  mother — no,  not  that!     He  has  sworn 

that  we  should  be  married,  as  soon  as  we  arrive  at 

but  no,  I  must  not  even  tell  you  whither  I  go — I,  too, 
have  sworn !  I  have  left  every  thing — I  have  nothing 
but  my  picture,  with  a  lock  of  your  hair,  and  a  sunny 
tendril  from  the  sweet  head  of  Felice,  in  the  locket. 


214  .      OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Farewell !  Pray  for  me !  Forgive  me !  He  says  I 
shall  come  back  to  you  and  Felice — but  my  lieart  is 
heavy  with  a  terrible  foreboding.  I  shall  never  see 
you  more!  "Rosalie." 

Rosalie  was  right — she  never  beheld  her  mother  or 
sister  again.  She  had  been  decoyed  away  by  a  young 
man,  a  student  in  the  Ecole  de  medicine, — a  foreigner, 
who  had  been  sent  to  France  to  obtain  his  professional 
education.  His  family,  it  appeared,  were  very  rich ; 
for,  during  his  stay  in  Paris,  he  had  squandered  im- 
mense sums,  in  the  dissipation  of  his  well-known  class, 
and  had  exceeded  the  most  reckless  of  them.  Having, 
however,  by  the  help  of  a  quick  and  eager  intellect, 
succeeded  in  acquiring  his  profession,  in  the  midst  of 
a  round  of  dissipation  now  grown  insipid  and  tiresome, 
he  was  about  preparing  to  leave  Paris  and  return  to 
his  native  county. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  first  saw  Rosalie,  as 
she  walked  by  her  mother's  side,  to  and  from  the 
church  of  St.  Sulpice.  Struck  by  her  beauty,  he 
watched,  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  was  reward- 
ed each  time  by  another  view  of  that  lovely  and  inge- 
nuous countenance. — Having  satisfied  himself  of  the 
habits  and  movements  of  Rosalie  and  her  mother,  he 
became  also  a  regular  attendant  at  early  morning  mass, 
in  the  church  of  St.  Sulpice.  Finally,  the  young  girl 
became  aware  that  a  pair  of  eager  eyes  waited  daily 
for  her  entrance,  and  were  fastened  in  devotion  upon 
her,  every  instant  that  she  stayed.     Then,  she  just 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  215 

looked  out  from  the  corner  of  her  eyes,  to  see  whether 
he  was  always  watching  her — and  then  their  eyes  met 
— his,  beaming  with  a  world  of  ardent  and  respectful 
devotion,  and  hers  cast  modestly  down,  her  brief, 
bright  glance  expiring  amid  the  blushes  of  her  cheek. 

But  why  prolong  the  history  ?  Is  it  not  always  the 
same?  Is  not  love,  which  is  the  one  sole  blessing, 
also  the  one  irresistible  temptation,  of  life  ?  Who  has 
ever  conquered  that  temptation  ? — None :  and  he  who 
thinks  he  has,  has  not  yet  endured  it — has  not  yet 
truly  loved.  The  note  that  the  commissionaire  had 
put  into  Madame  de  Morny's  hands,  told  the  history 
of  her  daughter's  love — our  readers  already  have  di- 
vined its  catastrophe :  she  it  was,  who,  dying  in  want 
and  poverty,  alone  in  a  strange  land,  had  left  as  a 
sole  relic,  to  her  daughter,  her  mother's  picture,  with 
the  locks  of  hair  of  her  aunt  and  grandmother.  This 
was  the  history — this  was  the  catastrophe. 

And  the  father  of  Eosalie ! — It  is  not  yet  time  to 
speak  of  him.  The  days  of  the  sick  husband  of  the 
gay  and  dashing  leader  of  fashion, — the  weary  and 
suffering  invalid.  Doctor  Valentine,  dying  amid  his 
unenjoyed  wealth — are  numbered.  The  hour  draws 
near. 

It  is  idle  and  vain  to  attempt  to  paint  the  agony 
and  despair  of  a  mother,  for  the  loss  of  her  Srst-born 
— not  lost  in  innocence  and  death — parted  with  but 
for  a  time,  with  a  sweet  certainty  of  rejoining  the 
loved   one,  pure   and  bright,  among  the   angels  in 


216  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

heaven — but  lost,  in  shame  and  dishonour — lost  forever, 
forever !  No  hope — nothing  but  the  bitterness  of  an- 
guish and  despair. 

Madame  de  Morny  had  borne  up  under  the  loss  of 
her  husband — for  it  was  necessary  to  live  for  her  chil- 
dren. But  now  the  loving  and  devoted  heart  was 
broken.  When  every  means,  that  even  the  ingenuity 
and  the  sagacity  of  the  French  police  could  devise, 
had  failed  to  obtain  a  trace  of  her  lost  daughter — 
when  the  aged  commissary,  almost  with  tears  in  his 
eyes — for  he  knew  well  the  sad  history  and  noble  de- 
votion of  the  mother  thus  bereft — told  her  that  there 
was  no  longer  any  hope, — then  the  poor  mother  felt 
that  her  strength  was  gone.  Not  even  the  deep,  ap- 
pealing eyes  of  her  infant  daughter,  appealing  so  trust- 
fully to  her,  could  retain  her  on  the  earth.  A  few 
months  she  lingered ;  and  then,  having  confided  Felice 
to  the  care  of  her  dearest  friend,  the  companion  of 
her  infancy,  the  sufferer  of  sorrows  similar  to  her  own, 
she  bade  farewell  to  all  sorrow,  and  went  to  join  her 
husband  in  heaven. 

Madame  de  Saintlieu,  to  whom  the  baby  Felice  was 
intrusted,  was  a  woman  entirely  worthy  of  so  precious 
a  charge.  She  had  but  one  child — a  son,  a  few  years 
older  than  Felice,  and  who  had  already  commenced 
his  education — being  intended  for  the  profession  of 
arms.  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Saintlieu  accepted 
Felice,  instead  of  the  daughter  for  whom  they  had 
prayed  in  vain.  As  she  grew  up,  she  was  so  beautiful, 
so  gifted,  so  noble  in  nature,  and  so  sweet  in  disposi- 
tion, that  the  hopes  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  de 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  217 

Saintlieu  were  fixed  upon  the  marriage  of  their  son 
and  Felice,  as  the  completion  of  their  happiness. — 
Their  hopes  were  not  disappointed.  Adolphe  could 
not  help  falling  desperately  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
Felice;  and  as  soon  as  the  young  people  were  of  a 
proper  age. — Felice,  who  was  very  fond  of  Adolphe, 
and  had  never  spoken  to  another  young  man  in  her 
life,  not  making  any  objection, — the  marriage  was  duly 
celebrated. 

For  a  while  they  lived  very  happily ;  and  two  lovely 
girls  came  to  bless  their  union,  and  finally  to  cheer 
the  solitary  hours  of  the  young  wife  and  mother,  who, 
although  from  her  talents  and  conversation — especially 
her  genius  for  music,  and  her  magnificent  voice — -was 
a  great  favourite  in  society.  However,  she  was  fond 
of  her  own  home,  and  preferred  the  company  of  her 
darling  daughters,  to  the  most  brilliant  successes  for 
herself.  And  besides,  a  cloud  had  fallen  on  her  from 
without.  Her  husband,  who  had  been  at  first  very  fond 
of  her,  eventually  proved  to  be  a  slave  to  the  most  des- 
potic of  all  infatuations — gambling.  His  father  and 
mother  had  both  died,  in  the  first  year  of  his  marriage 
with  Felice,  and  his  fortune  was  speedily  dissipated. 
Then,  came  the  loss  of  honour,  which  gambling  brings 
— the  heaviest  and  most  fatal  of  all  its  losses.  He 
induced  his  wife,  who  readily  consented,  without  an 
observation,  to  convert  her  own  fortune  into  cash,  for 
the  purpose  of  investing  it,  as  he  said,  in  a  sure  and 
immensely  profitable  speculation. 

After  this  was  accomplished,  Adolphe  proposed  a 
19 


218  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

short  visit  to  Spa,  as  the  summer  was  excessively  warm, 
and  the  trijD  would  do  his  wife  and  the  children  so 
much  good.  He  was  so  affectionate !  so  attentive ! — 
The  happy  Felice  blushed  with  pleasure,  as  she  hoped 
that  her  husband's  senses  had  come  back  !  They  went 
to  Spa  —  and  Monsieur  de  Saintlieu  re-commenced 
play  with  more  avidity  than  ever.  At  first  he  ap- 
peared to  be  successful,  and  endeavoured  to  rally  his 
wife  out  of  the  sadness  that  had  again  settled  upon 
her.  But  one  morning,  when  he  did  not  return  from 
his  place  of  resort  as  usual,  at  daylight,  she  grew 
uneasy.  In  an  hour  after,  they  brought  her  husband's 
corse  to  his  home !  He  had  killed  himself  with  a  pis- 
tol.— In  his  pocket  was  found  a  letter  to  his  wife : 

"Felice! — I  would  not  allow  a  villain  to  speak  to 
you  or  our  children,  without  killing  him.  I  am  a 
villain — and  I  kill  myself.  I  have  lied  to  you — stolen 
your  fortune — robbed  you  and  your  children — and  now 
I  die  like  a  coward,  to  escape  your  forgiveness.  If 
you  would  curse  me,  I  might,  perchance,  have  courage 
to  live — but  I  know  your  angelic  nature ; — you  would 
forgive  me.     That  I  could  not  endure ;  and  I  die. 

"  I  have  never  loved  any  but  you,  Felice — ^but  I  am 
the  victim  of  a  demon — gambling — a  demon  who  drags 
me  down  before  my  time.     Farewell !  " 

Thus  it  was,  that  deprived  at  once  of  husband  and 
fortune,  and  refusing  to  become  a  burden  upon  any 
of  the  wealthy  friends,  who  immediately  pressed  round 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  219 

lier,  and  overwhelmed  lier  with  offers  of  friendship 
and  protection,  conveyed  in  the  most  delicate  and  con- 
siderate manner.  But  she  was  firm.  Having  been 
suddenly  called  upon  to  act  for  herself,  she  gave  a 
glance  of  anxiety,  not  unmingled  with  a  proud  self- 
reliance,  at  her  children ;  and  returning  immediately 
to  Paris,  she  closed  up  the  affairs  of  her  husband's 
and  her  own  estates ;  procured  some  letters  of  intro- 
duction from  sources  whose  names  were  of  authority 
in  every  country  of  the  world — and,  with  five  thousand 
francs,  and  her  sister's  farewell  letter  to  her  mother, 
she  embarked  for  America — that  land  to  which  the 
broken-hearted  Rosalie  had  come  to  die,  and  where  it 
had  been  written,  was  to  be  accomplished  the  destiny 
of  the  two  sisters. 


220  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


BLACK   MAIL. 


Arthur  Wilmar  had  not  forgotten  the  permission 
to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  his  new  friend,  Madame 
de  Saintlieu.  His  sister  Ellen,  who  had  been  imme- 
diately taken  charge  of  by  Dr.  Felton,  still  continued 
feeble,  but  had  so  far  recovered  from  the  effects  of  her 
recent  alarm  as  not  to  be  in  any  immediate  danger. 
She  had  held  a  long  and  confidential  communication 
with  the  worthy  doctor,  in  which  she  had  confided  to 
him,  without  reserve,  a  faithful  account  of  the  strange 
and  terrible  adventures  of  the  night  of  Rosalie's  death. 
The  doctor  advised  her  not  to  relate  what  she  had 
seen  to  any  one,  not  even  to  her  family.  Arthur  and 
her  sisters  were  merely  told  of  the  infamous  deception 
which  had  been  practised  upon  her  by  Mrs.  Anthony, 
and  that  she  had  succeeded  in  escaping  in  safety  and 
uninjured  from  the  diabolical  plot  against  her.  The 
doctor  thought  he  saw  in  this  affair,  the  means,  if  rightly 
managed,  of  at  least  compelling  Henderson  to  restore 
the  fortune  of  the  Wilmars,  which  he  did  not  now 
doubt  had  been  wrongfully  taken  from  them  by  the 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  221 

quaker.  To  effect  this,  however,  the  greatest  caution 
was  absolutely  necessary,  lest  Henderson  should  be 
put  on  his  guard,  and  should  be  able  to  take  some 
means  of  thwarting  the  ends  of  justice. 

Since  that  fearful  night,  both  Henderson  and  young 
Ingraham  had  remained  in  a  state  of  constant  trepi- 
dation and  alarm.  Captain  Butler — who,  it  will  be 
recollected,  knew  nothing  of  Ingraham,  in  connexion 
with  the  part  he  had  played  in  the  transaction  at  Mrs. 
Anthony's,  had  given  his  testimony  on  the  coroner's 
inquest,  in  general  terms,  upon  the  manner  in  which 
the  body  of  Rosalie  had  been  found — the  house  being 
entirely  unoccupied,  having  evidently  been  suddenly 
abandoned  by  its  living  inmates,  upon  the  completion 
of  the  murder.  But  he  took  the  coroner  aside,  and 
informed  him  confidentially  of  his  having  seen  Ira 
Henderson  leave  the  house  a  few  minutes  before  the 
murder  was  discovered,  and  of  having  measured  the 
traces  of  two  bloody  footsteps,  which  he  had  discovered 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  The  coroner  agreed  with 
him  in  opinion,  that  it  was  best  not  to  give  these  facts 
to  the  public  at  present,  as  it  was  highly  important  to 
secure  the  keeper  of  the  house,  who  had  frequently 
been  seen,  and  could  be  recognised  by  the  Captain. 

As  for  Henderson,  the  Mayor  having  been  informed 
of  the  circumstances,  detailed  a  policeman  to  watch 
the  house  and  store  of  Henderson,  without  letting  him- 
self be  seen,  and,  unobserved,  to  dog  the  footsteps  of 
Henderson,  wherever  he  went.  The  policeman  was 
furnished  with  a  warrant,  issued  upon  the  affidavit  of 
19* 


222  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Captain  Butler,  and  instructed  to  arrest  Henderson, 
the  moment  he  attempted  to  leave  the  city,  but  other- 
wise to  leave  him  unmolested.  It  was  believed  that, 
by  this  coui'se,  the  guilty  parties  would  be  thrown  off 
their  guard,  and  that  Mrs.  Anthony  would  return  to 
seek  an  interview  with  her  patron — when  both  could 
be  arrested  together. 

The  policeman  Wilkins,  who  had  discovered  the 
miniature  and  the  anonymous  letter,  kept  his  own 
counsel — determining  to  make  use  of  the  clue  which 
they  furnished  him,  for  his  own  advantage.  From  the 
coroner's  inquest,  he  had  hurried  to  the  street  where 
Ingraham  lived,  and  had  patiently  watched  the  door 
of  Mrs.  Valentine's  house,  until  Ingraham,  towards 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  opened  the  door  and  looked 
cautiously  out.  Seeing  no  one,  and  supposing  that 
he  had  succeeded  in  getting  home  without  having  been 
observed,  he  came  down  the  steps,  and  walked  to- 
wards Chesnut  street,  trying  to  assume  his  usual  care- 
less swagger.  His  face  was  haggard,  however,  and 
his  eyes  were  wild  and  blood-shot ;  and  descending  the 
steps  of  the  first  oyster  cellar  he  encountered,  he  went 
up  to  the  bar  and  called  for  brandy  and  water.  While 
w^aiting  to  receive  change  for  a  piece  of  money  he  had 
laid  down  in  payment,  he  observed  a  rough-looking, 
sinister-eyed  man,  who  came  down  the  steps,  and 
leaning  familiarly  against  the  counter,  very  close  to 
where  Ingraham  stood,  said, 

"  You  may  just  as  well  take  out  another  fip,  Johnny 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  223 

— Mr.  Ingraham  has  just  asked  me  to  take  a  drink 
with  him." 

The  young  man  started  back ;  and  forgetting  for  a 
moment  every  thing  but  the  horror  of  being  treated 
in  so  familiar  and  impertinent  a  manner,  by  a  coarse, 
vulgar  fellow,  exclaimed, 

"Who  are  you?  Bar-keeper,  give  me  my  change — 
I  pay  for  only  my  own  drink." 

"Yes  you  will,  though,  honey!"  said  the  other, 
looking  up  at  Ingraham,  and  laying  his  hand  familiarly 
on  his  shoulder.  "Come  now,"  he  continued,  as  the 
young  man  shrunk  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  disgust ; 
"  don't  be  so  squeamish.  I  warrant,  now,  if  I  was  a 
young  and  handsome  gal,  dead  or  alive,  you  wouldn't 
be  so  afraid  of  my  coming  near  you!  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  rascal?  "  exclaimed  Ingraham, 
growing  pale. 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing!"  said  the  man;  "but 
maybe  you'll  reconsider  that  motion  not  to  pay  for  my 
drink?" 

"If  you  have  anything  to  say  to  me,"  said  Ingra- 
ham, trembling  in  every  limb,  "say  it.    I  don't  know 

you." 

"No,  but  you  will  though — all  in  good  time !  Come, 
Johnny,  hand  up  the  Monongahale,  and  give  the  gen- 
tleman his  change." 

Johnny,  handing  up  the  bottle,  looked  at  Ingraham, 
as  if  to  know  what  to  make  of  the  affair;  and,  re- 
ceiving an  impatient  nod,  dropped  the  extra  fip  into 
the  drawer,  and  went  to  opening  oysters. 


2*24  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Edward  Ingraliam,"  continued  the 
young  man's  new  acquaintance;  "I  have  got  some- 
thing very  particular  to  say  to  you;  and  if  you'll 
step  in  here,  we  shall  understand  ourselves  in  a  very 
little  time."  So  saying,  he  pointed  to  one  of  the 
little  stalls  into  which  one  side  of  the  cellar  was  di- 
vided. 

"If  the  gentleman's  got  anything  to  say  to  you," 
said  the  bar-keeper,  "you'd  better  go  into  that  there 
little  room  behind.     The  stalls  ain't  safe." 

"Eight,  Johnny,"  said  the  man,  leading  the  way, 
and  turning  up  the  gas,  which,  in  this  subterranean 
abode,  was  kept  burning  all  day. 

By  this  time,  Ingraham  had  become  alarmed ;  and 
from  the  mystery  and  importance  attached  by  the 
stranger  to  his  communication,  he  could  scarcely  doubt 
that  it  had  reference  to  the  death  of  Rosalie.  It 
must  be  remembered  that,  although  not  actually  guilty 
of  that  deed,  yet  he  had  contemplated  it  as  a  probability, 
and  all  the  other  facts  of  the  case  were  of  such  a  na- 
ture as,  if  known,  to  directly  implicate  him.  It  was 
with  the  greatest  trepidation,  therefore,  that  he  en- 
tered this  dark  cell-like  room,  and  inquired  of  the 
uncerimonious  stranger,  what  he  wanted. 

"  Now  don't  let's  go  too  fast,  Mr.  Edward  Ingra- 
ham, in  this  here  business.  Law,  I  know  you  well 
enough,  Mr.  Ingraham — though  perhaps  you  don't 
know  me.  I've  seen  you  these  several  years  past, 
going  it  on  the  high  horse,  at  Pudding  Sail's,  and 
Billy  Bender's  and  down  at  the  Dead  House,  late 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  225 

o'nights.  I  always  had  a  sort  of  tender  regard  for 
you,  just  as  if,  some  time  or  another,  I  could  do  some- 
thing for  you;  and  now  that  time  has  come." 

He  looked  steadily  at  Ingraham,  who  said  nothing. 
So  the  other  went  on. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Ingraham,  that  there  murder  down 
at  Mrs.  Anthony's — what's  the  matter,  Mr.  Ingra- 
ham ?  I  declare,  you  look  as  if  you  was  a-going  to 
faint !  Well — you  see  that  there  murder  has  made  a 
terrible  excitement.  All  the  papers  are  down  on  the 
police,  and  the  mayor,  and  the  governor,  and  on  every 
body  generally,  for  not  being  more  ^  efficient '  in  dis- 
covering the  ^  dastardly  perpetrators ' — yes,  that's  it, 
I've  got  it  in  my  pocket — '  dastardly  perpetrators'  of 
this  deed.  But  they  give  the  most  particular  Jessie 
to  the  poor  policeman — as  if  a  policeman  could  scare 
up  a  murderer  or  so,  whenever  he  wanted  to ! " 

"Well,  well,"  said  Ingraham,  trying  to  look  fierce, 
and  getting  up  as  if  to  go.  "What's  all  this  to 
me?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  Mr.  Edward  Ingraham,  nothing  at 
all — but  my  story  will  get  more  interesting  in  a  minute. 
Now  you  see,  supposing  Mr.  Ingraham — I  say,  just 
supposing — that  I  had  a  friend  in  the  police,  who 
happened  to  be  near  Cherry  street  last  night — or  this 
morning — and  who  saw  a  young  gentleman,  by  the 
name  of  Ingraham,  running  as  fast  as  he  could, 
through  the  streets,  in  the  direction  from  the  house 
where  the  murder  was  committed?  And  then  sup- 
posing, furthermore,  that  this  same  policeman  came 


2*26  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

across  the  captain  of  the  beat,  and  helped  him  break 
into  the  house,  and  discover  the  body ;  and  while  the 
captain  was  examining  the  footsteps  round  a  puddle 
of  blood  in  the  hall,  supposing  this  policeman  had 
went  boldly  into  the  room  itself,  and  found  on  the 
table,  a  little  picture  of  a  woman,  and  an  open 
letter?" 

"  That  letter !  I  never  thought  of  that !  "  groaned 
Ingraham,  utterly  thrown  off  his  guard,  as  the  recol- 
lection of  this  terrible  fact  flashed  upon  him. 

"I  supposed  not,  Mr.  Ingraham,"  said  the  man,  in 
imperturbable  coolness — "and  that's  what  I  told  my 
friend  the  policeman.  Well  now,  to  begin  where  I 
left  off.  Supposing  this  policeman  ain't  a  bad  kind 
of  a  fellow,  and  don't  want  to  give  gentlemen  any 
extra  trouble.  Still,  you  know,  he  hain't  got  no  time 
to  admire  pictures  of  strange  ladies ;  and  he  thinks 
he  had  better  sell  this  here  one,  as  he's  got.  Now, 
supposing  you  wanted  to  buy  a  picture  of  that  there 
kind — I  say  only  supposing,  you  know — what  do  you 
think  you  might  be  willing  to  give  for  it,  with  the 
letter,  you  know,  thrown  in  ?  But  perhaps  you  ain't 
fond  of  pictures,  Mr.  Ingraham?" 

"Oh,  yes  I  am,"  stammered  Edward,  "very  fond. 
I  think  I  should  like  the  one  you  mention ;  and  if  a 
thousand  dollars" — 

"  Oh,  tain't  enough,  Mr.  Ingraham — I  know  my 
friend  never  would  sell  it  for  that.  You  see,  pictures 
is  very  high,  owing  to  there  being  so  many  Crystal 
Palaces   a   building,   and  I'm   sure  that   my  friend 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  227 

wouldn't  think  of  taking  less  than  five  thousand — 
with  the  letter  thrown  in,  you  know.  And  in  fact, 
that's  just  the  sum  he  wants  for  it ;  and  he's  a  real 
obstinate  fellow,  and  if  he  don't  get  it  by  to-night  at 
seven  o'clock,  he'll  go  and  leave  the  picture  and  letter 
at  the  mayor's  office  for  public  inspection.  It'll  be 
his  duty,  you  know!  " 

"Will  you  bring  the  articles  here  this  evening? 
You  and  you  alone.  I  remember  you,  now — you  are 
a  policeman.  Come  alone,  or  I'll  have  nothing  to  do 
with  you." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  alone — I  ain't  afraid  of  no  such  a 
covie  as  you,  Mr.  Edward  Ingraham :  I  always  carry's 
a  barker  about  me,  that's  good  for  at  least  six  of  you ! 
Good  day — I'll  be  punctual — be  sure  you  are !  Good 
day!" 

And  thus  it  was  that  Mr.  Edward  Ingraham  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Philistines. 


228  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


COLLECTING  EVIDENCE. 

Notwithstanding  that  the  newspapers  had  so  vio- 
lently attacked  the  police,  the  mayor,  and  the  authori- 
ties generally,  that  a  stranger  unacquainted  with  the 
blessings  of  a  free  press  would  have  been  forced  to  the 
conclusion,  either  that  the  authorities  were  murderers, 
or  the  editors  blackguards,  yet  the  police  and  the 
mayor  had  really  done  their  duty,  as  far  as  they  could, 
and  were  still  doing  it. 

But  it  was  deemed,  as  we  have  stated,  of  the 
greatest  importance  to  the  proper  elucidation  of  the 
case,  that  Mrs.  Anthony  should  be  arrested ;  and  the 
only  hope  of  this,  was  to  keep  all  their  movements 
profoundly  secret,  and  allow  her,  as  well  as  every  body 
else  concerned,  to  suppose  that  the  affair  had  blown 
over. 

The  next  day  after  Dr.  Felton  received  the  history 
of  the  affair  from  Helen,  he  went  to  the  mayor's  office, 
and  begged  a  private  audience  of  that  functionary,  on 
important  business.  The  mayor,  who  knew  Dr.  Fel- 
ton's  reputation,  as  a  physician  in  high  standing,  im- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  229 

mediately  admitted  him,  and  received  him  with  great 
respect. 

"I  have  come,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  "to  make  you 
an  important  communication  respecting  the  recent 
murder  in  Cherry  street.  I  only  became  aware  of  the 
facts  yesterday — and  I  required  some  time  to  consider 
what  was  the  wisest  and  most  proper  course  to  pursue. 
I  have  now  decided ;  and  if  you  have  time,  I  will  make 
my  communication  now." 

"Certainly,  sir — the  case  is  a  most  important  as 
well  as  mysterious  one.    I  am  entirely  at  your  service." 

The  doctor  then  related  the  circumstances,  as  they 
had  been  given  him,  in  full,  by  Helen — having  first 
exacted  a  promise  from  the  mayor,  that  he  would  leave 
the  task  of  inducing  the  witness  to  appear  and  testify, 
if  it  were  necessary,  entirely  to  him. 

The  mayor  listened  attentively  to  the  narration — 
especially  to  that  part  which  related  to  the  picture 
and  the  letter.  Then,  requesting  Doctor  Felton  to 
wait  a  minute,  he  rang  a  little  bell  that  stood  on  the 
table,  and  a  messenger  looked  in. 

"  Send  Captain  Butler  to  me." 

The  captain  came  in. 

"Captain  Butler,"  said  the  mayor;  "did  you  not 
tell  me  that  policeman  Wilkins  was  with  you  when  you 
discovered  the  murder  in  Cherry  street?" 

"Yes — he  went  into  the  bed-room  while  I  was  mea- 
suring the  footsteps  in  the  hall." 

"Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  bring  him  in  with 

you?" 

20 


230  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

The  captain  went  out,  and  the  major  observed  to 
Dr.  Felton; 

^'I  have  reason  to  suspect  that  fellow  Wilkins — he  is 
an  old  stool-pigeon,  and  has  doubtless  concealed  the 
miniature  and  the  letter,  for  the  purpose  of  frightening 
Ingraham  into  giving  him  a  large  sum  for  them.  I 
hope  we  shall  not  be  too  late." 

Captain  Butler  now  returned  with  Wilkins. 

*'Mr.  Wilkins,"  said  the  major,  "I  understand  that 
jou  have  a  letter  and  a  picture  in  jour  possession, 
which  JOU  found  in  the  room  of  the  joung  woman 
murdered  in  Cherrj  street,  and  that  jou  forgot  to 
mention  this  circumstance,  either  to  Captain  Butler,  or 
the  coroner,  in  jour  evidence  at  the  inquest. — Is  that 
so?" 

Wilkins,  who  knew  the  inflexible  character  of  the 
man  he  had  to  deal  with,  quailed  before  his  steadj, 
piercing  glance. 

"Yes,  jour  honour,"  he  finallj  said;  "jou  see  I 
thought  it  best  not  to  make  things  public  at  once,  and 
so  I  thought  I  would  tell  jour  honour  about  the  letter 
and  the  picture,  in  private." 

"  Quite  right,  Mr.  Wilkins — I  approve  jour  discre- 
tion.    You  ma  J  now  hand  these  articles  over  to  me." 

"  But,  jour  honor,  would  n't  it  be  better  for  me  to 
keep  them  till  the  trial,  jou  know" — 

"  Oh,  I  will  see  that  thej  are  forthcoming  at  the 
proper  time — jou  mav  safelj  entrust  them  to  me." 

Wilkins  saw  that  his  fancied  fortune  from  the  pos- 
session of  these  invaluable  relics  was  fading  into  air. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  231 

He  had  not  yet  come  to  any  understanding  with  In- 
graham,  as  his  avarice  induced  him  to  demand  the  five 
thousand  dollars,  and  still  to  keep  possession  of  the 
articles.  This  Ingraham  had  positively  refused.  He 
was  willing  to  hand  over  the  money  agreed  upon,  if 
Wilkins  would  perform  his  part  of  the  contract. — 
Otherwise,  he  might  do  his  worst. 

Wilkins  was  now  disgusted  w^ith  himself  for  having 
refused,  and  only  wanted  to  gain  an  hour's  time,  to 
close  with  Ingraham  at  once,  pocket  the  money,  and 
make  his  escape. 

"Certainly,  you  honour,"  he  replied;  "just  as  your 
honour  pleases.  I  left  the  things  at  home — and  I'll 
bring  them  down  this  evenmg,  as  it's  just  my  hour  for 
going  on  duty." 

"  Oh,  never  mind !  Sit  down  there,  Mr.  Wilkins, 
and  write  a  note  to  your  wife,  to  send  the  things — I'll 
have  it  taken  to  your  house." 

Seeing  himself  fairly  caught,  and  cursing  his  own 
avarice,  that  had  defeated  itself,  he  suddenly  re- 
collected that  he  had  the  articles  about  him;  and, 
fishing  them  up,  very  reluctantly,  from  the  bottom  of 
his  pocket,  he  handed  them  over  to  the  mayor. 

"You  can  go  on  duty  now,  Mr.  Wilkins,"  said  his 
honour. 

"Is  it  not  probable,"  said  the  mayor,  "that  the 
girl  left  some  other  letters  or  papers,  which  would 
serve  as  a  clue,  at  least,  to  her  identification?  Be- 
sides, there  is  the  dagger — what  has  become  of  that  ? 
Captain  Butler  is  the  house  still  in  your  charge?  " 


232  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"Yes — here  is  the  key  which  I  haci  made  for  the 
front  door." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  three  go  and  make  a  further 
examination  of  the  premises." 

"What  is  here?"  said  Captain  Butler;  who  in 
handling  the  miniature,  had  accidentally  touched  the 
secret  spring  of  the  locket.  Two  locks  of  hair  were 
thus  disclosed — one  a  dark,  rich  brown,  the  other,  a 
small,  light  curl,  evidently  from  the  head  of  an  infant, 
and  answering  exactly  to  the  sister's  description  of 
"a  sunny  tendriL"  These  lay  upon  a  piece  of  white 
paper,  on  the  back  of  which  was  written, 

"Ma  mere  et  ma  soeur. 

"Pam,  18 "ROSALIE  de  morxy." 

"Ah!"  said  the  mayor,  "we  at  least  know  the 
name  of  the  poor  girl's  mother.  We  must  immedi- 
ately write  to  France.  This  will  make  our  immediate 
visit  to  the  house  unnecessary.  I  will  send  for  you, 
this  evening  or  to-morrow,  when  we  shall  both,  per- 
haps, have  a  little  more  leisure." 

"Excuse  me  for  one  moment  longer,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, as  Captain  Butler  left  the  room.  "I  wish  to  con- 
sult you  upon  this  point.  It  is  true  that  Ira  Hender- 
son is  innocent  of  the  death  of  the  poor  girl — and 
also  that  Ingraham  cannot  justly  be  charged  with  it — 
though  his  conduct  led  to  it ;  and  both  he  and  Hen- 
derson are  as  great  villains  as  if  they  had  perpetrated 
the  deed  together.  It  seems  certain  that  the  girl  had 
been  seduced  or  betrayed  by  Ingraham — and  it  is  cer- 
tain that  Henderson   contemplated   the  same   crime 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  233 

against  Helen  Wilmar.  Now,  I  have  every  reason  to 
believe  that  Henderson,  who  was  Mr.  Wilmar's  executor, 
defrauded  his  family  out  of  the  whole  of  his  fortune 
— and  it  was  only  yesterday  I  discovered  that  Helen 
Wilmar,  who  was  engaged  to  Ingraham  when  the 
blow  came,  of  the  loss  of  their  fortune,  and  when  he 
brutally  abandoned  her,  is  now  dying  for  love  of 
him." 

"  I  remember  the  two  circumstances  well.  Proceed, 
my  dear  sir." 

"Now,  such  being  the  case,  and  both  these  men," 
resumed  the  doctor,  "being  great  criminals,  I  put  it 
to  you,  as  a  man  and  a  magistrate,  whether  we  have 
not  a  right  to  make  use  of  these  circumstances ;  and, 
since  we  can  no  longer  help  the  dead,  to  restore  hap- 
piness to  a  wronged  and  worthy  family,  and  peace  to 
a  gentle  and  broken  heart?  " 

"I  see  your  meaning  my  dear  doctor,  and  it  is  as 
acute,  as  it  is  benevolent  and  just.  We  undoubtedly 
have  a  right  to  act  in  the  manner  you  propose,  for 
an  unquestionably  good  and  just  object,  and  where 
no  injustice  can  accrue  to  other  parties — which  I  take 
it,  is  the  case  in  the  present  affair.  I  undertake  to 
say  so  much,  as  a  magistrate  and  a  lawyer." 

"  Well,  then,  we  are  agreed — but  what  is  the  best 
manner  of  proceeding?" 

"Why,  if  we  do  not  obtain  some  satisfactory  infor- 
mation of  Mrs.  Anthony,  to-day,  I  shall  wait  no  Ion-: 
ger — besides,  we  are  not  in  need  of  her,  now,  except 
as  a  victim  of  justice.  Meanwhile,  I  will  have  both 
20* 


234  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Henderson  and  Ingraliam  apprehended  on  the  same 
charge,  and  tried  as  accessories  in  the  murder.  The 
evidence  we  possess,  without  the  explanatory  and 
harmonizing  testimony  of  Miss  Wilmar,  would  un- 
doubtedly be  sufficient  to  hang  them  both." 

"  That  shows  the  danger  of  relying  on  circum- 
stantial evidence." 

"Yes,  only — you  will  smile  at  my  superstition, 
doctor — but  there  is  a  wide  and  deep-seated  belief 
among  judges  and  lawyers,  that  there  is  a  providence 
in  all  these  things,  and  that  the  innocent  are  never 
permitted  to  suffer  death,  for  the  crime  of  murder." 

"But,  there  are  well-authenticated  cases  on  record, 
are  there  not  ?  And  besides,  we  know  that  the  inno- 
cent do  suffer  things  less  than  death;  and  if  provi- 
dence prevents  the  greater  injustice,  why  not  the 
lesser?" 

"It  is  true,"  replied  the  mayor,  musing;  "there  is 
no  logic  for  it — and  yet,  I  believe  it.  Besides,  how 
know  we  that  many  things  which  we  call  unjust  suf- 
fering, are  not  either  just  punishments  for  some  un- 
revealed  sin,  or  perhaps  positive  blessings  in  the  shape 
of  suffering?" 

""What  sin  can  you  suppose  this  poor  young  girl 
to  have  committed,  worthy  of  death?" 

"  Ah,  my  dear  doctor,  do  you  call  that  death  a  pu- 
nishment ?  Child  as  she  was,  her  blood  has  washed  out 
her  sins,  and  she  will  be  received  among  the  angels. 
A  few  years  more,  and  she  would  have  become,  per- 
haps, a  demon,  such  as  the  devils  themselves  would 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  235 

shudder  at.  It  is  better  to  leave  it  all  to  providence, 
and  to  believe  devoutly  in  him.  But  meanwhile,  so 
far  as  we  have  facts  before  us,  it  is  our  duty  to  act. 
I  will  consider  on  the  best  means  of  laying  the  al- 
ternative of  justice  and  restitution  before  Henderson 
and  Ingraham,  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  wound  the  de- 
licacy of  Miss  Helen  or  her  family.  I  will  see  you 
again  to-morrow,  and  then  I  shall  have  my  plans  ar- 
ranged, and  ready  to  submit  to  you." 

The  doctor  took  his  leave;  and  the  mayor,  again 
ringing  his  bell,  sent  for  Captain  Butler,  with  whom 
he  had  a  long  interview. — 

The  captain  then  went  out ;  and  the  now  mollified 
newspapers,  the  next  morning,  announced  that  Ira 
Henderson  and  Edward  Ingraham,  had  been  arrested 
for  the  murder  of  Mademoiselle  Rosalie  de  Morny. 
They  revelled  in  the  details  of  the  affair — described 
the  furniture  of  the  house,  the  locality  aiid  general 
appearance  of  the  street,  with  a  particular  history  of 
the  corner  grocery,  which  was  erected  in  the  time  of  the 
Swedes;  inserted  a  programme  of  the  bed-ioom  where 
"the  unfortunate  young  lady  encountered  her  dis- 
tressing fate" — with  a  portrait  of  the  deceased,  from 
a  daguerreotype,  taken  on  the  spot  by  "our  enter- 
prising fellow  townsman,  George  Washington  Sky- 
light, Esq.,"  and  a  correct  view  of  the  miniature,  and 
a/«<?  simile  of  the  letter,  "recovered  by  that  faithful 
and  energetic  public  officer,  Wilmington  Wilkins, 
Esq."  They  puffed  the  police  generally, — they  puffed 
the  mayor  and  Captain  Butler,  particularly ;  and  they 


23G  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

were  very  severe  upon  the  character  of  poor  Mrs. 
Anthony,  who  was  not  there  to  defend  herself,  and  so 
was  made  the  general  scape-goat  of  the  misdoings  of 
everybody.  In  fact,  the  reporters  and  the  news-boys 
had  a  glorious  time  of  it,  and  fully  realized  the  old 
proverb,  that  ''it  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody 
good." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  237 


CHAPTER  XXL 


THE  FLOWERING  OF  A  HEART. 


There  are  days  and  hours,  of  mingled  storm  and 
sunshine,  in  which  hearts  as  well  as  plants,  gathering 
to  themselves  the  strength  of  their  existence,  burst  sud- 
denly into  bloom.  Yesterday,  the  germ  lay  dark  and 
silent,  folded  in  the  unformed  and  protecting  leaves : 
to-day,  it  is  expanded  in  all  its  loveliness,  and  fills  the 
air  with  the  intoxicating  perfume  of  its  beauty.  This 
culminating  hour  had  come  to  the  soul  of  Arthur  Wil- 
mar.  The  storms,  the  sunshine,  through  which  he 
had  just  passed,  had  ripened  all  the  powers  and  ca- 
pacities of  his  nature.  His  vague  dreams,  his  wild 
longings  and  aspirations,  had  taken  form,  and  difiused 
around  him  an  atmosphere  that  thrilled  every  nerve 
with  a  new  sense  of  life  and  power.  He  wandered  no 
longer  in  darkness,  questioning  the  dim  and  distant 
stars,  of  all  those  mysteries  of  fate  and  life,  which 
were  yet  folded  and  silent  within  him.  Day  had 
dawned — the  sun  had  arisen — and  far  away  on  every 
side  stretched  the  boundless  horizon  of  hope.  At  first, 
the  objects  and  images  of  his  new  world  were  confused 


238  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

and  undistinguishable  to  Lis  newly  awakened  senses. 
But  gradually,  as  his  vision  grew  more  calm,  they  ar- 
ranged themselves  in  harmonious  perspective,  and 
filled  his  soul  with  the  divine  joy  of  beauty.  Art  had 
now  an  object,  ambition  an  aim.  The  airy  visions  of 
his  youthful  dreams  came  trooping  by,  shedding  music 
upon  the  air,  and  dazzling  him  with  their  splendour. 
And  amid  them  all,  there  was  a  presence,  that  informed 
them  with  a  sympathy  and  a  meaning,  that  made  his 
heart  thrill,  as  oh,  how  often  he  had  hoped  that  it 
would  one  day  thrill !  This  glorious  presence,  which 
seemed  to  be  repeated  on  every  side — which  every 
sound,  every  breath,  called  up,  smiling  before  him — 
was  the  earnest,  tender  face  of  Madame  de  Saintlieu, 
with  its  clear,  steady  eyes  looking  into  the  depths  of 
his  heart,  as  the  sunbeams  penetrate  the  waters. 

The  anxiety  occasioned  by  Helen's  absence,  and 
her  subsequent  illness,  had  for  a  moment  overclouded 
his  newly  expanded  horizon.  But  the  lost  w^as  found, 
the  loved  one  was  restored  to  their  tender  love  and 
care.  She  still  suffered  much,  and  seemed  to  be  grow- 
ing weaker.  But  Dr.  Felton  spoke  encouragingly — 
talked  cheerfully  of  young  ladies  naturally  taking  cold, 
when  they  went  rushing  about  the  streets  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning — and  spoke  confidently  of  her 
"coming  round"  all  right  again,  in  a  little  while. — 
Helen  smiled,  as  if  she  believed  it  all ;  and  Arthur, 
kissing  her  tenderly,  and  consigning  her  to  the  care 
of  her  sister,  resumed  his  daily  avocations,  which  he 
had  for  some  time  too  much  neglected. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  239 

It  was  some  days  before  he  would  remind  himself 
that  Madame  de  Saintlieu  had  given  him  a  cordial 
permission  to  visit  her,  and  gained  courage  to  act 
upon  that  recollection.  His  heart  beat,  as  he  fully 
believed  heart  had  never  beat  before,  as  he  rang  the 
bell  at  Mrs.  Loftus',  and  inquired  for  Madame  de 
Saintlieu. 

He  found  her  busily  occupied  in  mending  some 
guipure  lace,  whose  heavy  web  of  arabesque,  was 
growing  into  shape,  beneath  her  fingers,  as  she  united 
the  broken  threads,  and  restored  the  rich  and  antique 
pattern  to  its  original  symmetry. 

There  are  some  periods  of  life,  in  which  the  excited 
imagination  draws  poetry  from  the  most  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances. 

"I  could  almost  think,"  said  he,  taking  a  seat  near 
the  low  sofa  where,  by  her  side,  she  had  spread  out  the 
figures  of  the  lace  which  she  had  already  completed; 
"that  I  see  Arachne  herself  before  me,  weaving  the 
web  of  some  poor  mortal's  destiny,  doomed  to  go  round 
and  round  forever  in  its  inextricable  meshes." 

"Arachne  is  only  a  spider,  in  these  modern  days  of 
commonplace ;  and  the  practical  brush  of  the  unrelent- 
ing housemaid  sweeps  all  her  dainty  woofs  away,  with- 
out even  stopping  to  see  that  they  are  beautiful.  But 
it  is  beautiful,  this  old  lace — one  of  the  few  remaining 
works  of  human  hands,  that  tell  their  story  to  the 
heart." 

"Tell  me  the  story." 

"  Oh,  you  know  that  this  lace  was  all  made  by  the 


240  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

nuns  of  the  middle  ages — I  don't  mean  middle-aged 
nuns !  And  so  laborious  was  the  task,  and  so  slow  its 
progress,  that  often  the  altar-piece,  commenced  by 
some  young  devotee,  escaped  from  a  world  that  had 
too  soon  pressed  upon  her  young  heart,  was  not 
finished  till  long  after  the  fingers  of  her  who  had  begun 
it,  were  mouldering  in  the  grave.  One  can  under- 
stand the  mysterious  awe  with  which  her  successor 
took  up  the  unfinished  web,  and  went  on  with  the  sus- 
pended task,  of  her  whose  labours  were  finished  for- 
ever." 

''Imagination  can  invest  the  most  insignificant 
object  with  an  infinite  interest.  What  should  it  not, 
then,  confer  upon  the  soul  itself? " 

''No — the  soul  is  its  master:  she  needs  a  mightier 
magician  than  imagination,  before  she  puts  forth  her 
immortal  beauties." 

"And  the  name  of  that  magician  is ," 

"  Oh,  we  will  call  no  names  !  "  said  Felice,  laughing, 
and  blushing  a  little.  "  Just  now  you  likened  me  to  a 
spider;  I  don't  know  what  you  would  say  of  poor  little 
cupid!" 

"  Is  he  one  of  the  good  genii,  who  delights  to  make 
his  votaries  happy? — or  is  he  of  the  naughty  ones, 
who  amuse  themselves  by  enjoying  the  sufi'erings  of 
those  who  have  rashly  invoked  them?" 

"You  must  ask  a  heart  that  has  loved:  I  cannot 
answer  that  question,"  said  Felice,  with  a  little  impe- 
rious motion,  as  if  she  were  almost  about  to  be  ofiended. 

Wilmar's  face  grew  crimson,  and  he  was  silent. 


OUR  FIllST  FAMILIES.  24  I 

"Nay,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  seeing  his  confusion ; 
"I  have  no  right,  after  all,  to  refuse  answering  ques- 
tions— I  have  promised  to  be  your  teacher ;  and  so  I  will 
do  as  I  suspect  many  other  teachers  are  in  the  habit 
of  doing — answer  at  random.  Love  carries  a  goblet 
filled  with  the  true  elixir  of  life — those  who  quaff  it 
without  question  of  its  qualities,  and  while  the  foam 
still  dances  on  the  surface,  can  never  be  again  truly 
unhappy,  for  they  have  strengthened  their  souls  with 
the  anticipated  joys  of  heaven.  But  they  who  stop  to 
taste,  and  judge,  and  test  the  flavour  of  the  draught, 
find  it  but  an  insipid,  or  a  burning  poison.  There's 
mj  allegory — what  think  you  of  it?  " 

"  Love  is,  then,  like  art — jealous  of  rivalries  or  re- 
servations.    Do  they  destroy  one  another?  " 

"Not  necessarily — but  because  two  natures  are 
rarely  found,  in  contact,  capable  of  a  perfect  devotion 
to  both  love  and  art.  Such  a  union  would  be  a  prac- 
tical miracle.  Such  love  would  be  as  sublime  as  art 
— such  art,  as  gentle  and  child-like  as  love.  It  is 
this  combination  of  which  angels  are  created." 

"You  ennoble  both  love  and  art — but  you  make  me 
despair  of  either!" 

"  Of  art,  surely  not,  my  dear  Mr.  Wilmar.  You 
have  already  established  your  claim  to  the  possession 
of  that  moiety  of  a  perfect  existence.  The  other  will 
come." 

"  Oh,  your  words  are  inspirations !     How  would  I 
glory  in  being  worthy  of  your  teaching !     Your  every 
idea  seems  to  complete  and  make  intelligible  to  me, 
21 


242  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

some  vast  expressionless  want  that  has  ever  been 
struggling  in  mj  bosom !  " 

"Do  you  know  that  this  is  very  exquisite  flattery, 
Mr.  Wilmar — and  that  flattery  is  forbidden  in  the 
world  of  true  art?" 

"And  in  the  world  of  love  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no — there  can  be  no  flattery  between  lovers — 
because  neither  language,  looks,  nor  action,  can  ever 
express  all  the  perfections  of  a  loved  one,  as  they  ac- 
tually appear  to  the  lover's  eyes." 

From  conversations  like  this  —  and  having  once 
yielded  to  the  delicious  emotions  which  her  presence  ex- 
cited in  him — having  abandoned  himself  without  reserve 
to  that  sweet  empii-e  which  young  love  establishes  over 
the  heart — his  visits  were  soon  almost  daily  repeated 
— they  would  revert  to  the  exercise  and  discussion  of 
the  beautiful  art  in  which  they  both  found  the  highest 
happiness.  Music  i-s  the  most  seductive  and  dangerous 
of  all  means  of  communication  between  two  congenial 
natm^es.  It  symbolizes  all  things,  and  boldly  expresses 
all  things,  even  those  of  which  the  bashful  lover  dares 
scarcely  dream  in  words — and  yet  it  ever  remains  pure 
and  spiritual.  Musicians,  and  those  who  know  what 
music  is,  will  feel  and  understand  this — but  to  others 
it  would  be  impossible  to  explain  it,  in  intelligible 
language. 

With  her  quick  apprehension,  and  her  knowledge 
of  the  world,  Madame  de  Saintlieu  could  not  remain 
ignorant  of  the  natiu'e  of  the  influence  she  was  exerting 
unconsciously  over  Wilmar,  although  she  took  care  not 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILTKH,  'lio 

to  let  him  become  aware  that  she  had  made  the  dis- 
covery. She  had  com^ageously  and  honestly  examined 
her  own  heart,  and  she  found  there  only  a  deep  interest, 
a  tender  and  affectionate  friendship,  and  a  sense  of 
exquisite  pleasure,  untinctured  with  the  sympathy  of 
a  mutual  passion,  in  the  fresh  and  delicate  devotion  to 
her,  which  grew  daily  more  and  more  deep  and  absorb- 
ing— and  yet,  as  if  afraid  of  itself  and  its  own  hopes, 
more  and  more  reserved  and  respectful.  She  did  not, 
as  yet,  love  Arthur — nor  was  she  fully  satisfied  that 
the  feelings  with  which  he  regarded  her,  were  anything 
more  than  the  gratitude  of  a  sensitive  and  fine  nature, 
to  one  who  had  been  the  means  of  awakening  new 
powers  and  new  ideas  in  himself.  She  was  charmed 
with  the  freshness,  the  sincerity,  of  his  character — with 
his  unselfish  genius,  so  different  from  the  exacting  va- 
nity and  egotism  of  the  artists  and  brilliant  men  of 
society — and  she  was  inexpressibly  flattered  by  the 
reverent  and  delicate  devotion,  rather  than  respect, 
with  which  he  regarded  her. 

She  was  not,  however,  quite  convinced  of  the  strength 
or  consistence  of  his  character.  His  early  seclusion 
from  the  world,  and  the  lack  of  that  perfect  self-pos- 
session which  can  be  only  attained  by  the  regular 
habit  of  mixing  in  general  yet  refined  society, — the 
benefits  of  which  she  fully  possessed,  without  being 
herself  aware  of  it — somewhat  misled  her  in  her  esti- 
mate of  "VVilmar's  character,  and  caused  her,  in  some 
respects,  greatly  to  under-rate  him ;  while  at  the  same 


1^44  UUK  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

time,  she  yincerely  admired  him,  and  felt  the  greatest 
interest  in  him. 

In  a  word,  she  feared  that  he  was  deficient  in  moral 
stamina ;  while  this  appearance  proceeded  simply  from 
a  too  insignificant  sense  of  himself,  and  a  feeling  akin 
to  worship  for  her.  Underneath  all  this,  too,  heaved 
the  deep  fountains  of  passion,  which  bathe  with  their 
lava  fires,  the  simplicity  of  a  first  love.  He  did  not 
dare  to  boldly  analyze  his  feelings — to  own  to  himself 
that  he  was  pining  for  love  of  this  glorious  creatui-e — 
and  to  stretch  out  his  arm  and  seek  to  grasp  that  which 
he  desired.  There  was,  in  his  eyes,  a  kind  of  sacrilege 
in  this,  of  which  he  dared  not  be  guilty.  And  besides 
what  right  had  he  to  expect  success  ? — and,  should  he 
be  rejected,  how  could  he  be  sure  that  she  would  again 
admit  him  to  the  present  delicious  footing  of  intimacy, 
and  unreserved  intercom'se  of  thought,  without  which 
he  felt  that  life  would  be  worthless  to  him  ? 

And  then  there  was  another  thought — a  thought  that 
gave  him  the  keenest  misery — a  thought  upon  which 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  dwell,  but  shrunk  from  it, 
like  the  coward  that  he  was.  Yet,  spite  of  himself,  it 
would  often  obtrude  itself  upon  him.  What  if  she  loved 
another!  He  only  knew,  from  some  casual  phrases 
he  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Loftus  and  Mrs.  Valentine, 
that  she  was  a  widow,  and  that  she  had  come  to  America 
for  the  purpose  of  supporting  herself  and  her  children, 
by  the  practice  of  those  accomplishments  which,  in 
other  days,  had  embellished  her  own  brilliant  circle  of 
private  society.     In  that  circle  many  must  have  loved 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  245 

her — many  in  comparison  with  whom  he  felt  how  un- 
worthy and  insignificant  he  must  appear.  No — he 
dared  not  hope ;  and  all  he  ventured  to  anticipate  was, 
that  their  present  intercourse  might  not  be  broken  up. 

Modest  lover!  Satisfied  with  so  little — and  yet 
burning  with  desire  to  have  all — to  press  her  to  your 
bosom — to  feel  her  heart  beat  against  yours — to  revive 
that  fainting  and  palpitating  frame,  with  the  full  and 
intoxicating  draught  of  love !  Yes — oh,  yes !  you 
would  exhaust  Cupid's  foaming  goblet  to  the  last  drop, 
and  still  hold  up  your  thirsty  and  unsatisfied  lips! 
And  yet  you  coolly  reason  the  case  with  your  very 
reasonable  self,  and  conclude  that  you  must  continue 
to  be  satisfied  with  these  long,  playful,  and  pleasant 
interviews  in  Mrs.  Loftus'  somewhat  cold  and  stately 
drawing-room — with  that  creature,  whose  every  move- 
ment and  look,  whose  every  smile  and  accent,  sends 
the  blood  boiling  through  your  veins ! — seated  quietly 
in  her  little  sofa,  surrounded  with  her  allegorical  gui- 
pure, or  with  the  newspapers, — or  playing  with  her 
children — while  you,  hat  in  hand,  sit  stiflJy  perched 
upon  the  edge  of  one  of  Mrs.  Loftus'  old-fashioned 
chairs — playing  propriety  with  all  your  might,  and  with 
most  intense  self-mastery  preventing  yourself  from 
snatching  her  up  in  your  arms,  rushing  with  her  through 
the  streets — into  the  forest — any  where^  somewhere, 
where  you  may  throw  yourself  at  her  feet-,  and  implore 
her  to  take  pity  on  you ! 

Well — there  is  one  comfort !  No  matter  how  ab- 
surdly a  man  in  love  may  be  constrained  to  think  and 
21* 


24U  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

reason,  he  generally  acts  in  tlie  most  straight  forward 
and  sensible  way — that  is,  as  soon  as  his  love  has 
risen  to  that  point  deserving  the  name  of  a  genuine 
passion. 

And  so,  one  sunny  day,  having  firmly  settled  him- 
self in  the  conviction  that  the  policy  so  much  easier 
for  diplomatists  than  lovers  to  pursue — a  masterly  in- 
activity— was  his  only  hope  at  least  for  the  present 
— Arthur  went  to  rehearse  with  Madame  de  Saintlieu 
a  little  song  which  he  had  been  composing  at  her  re- 
quest. She  had  given  him  the  words  in  manuscript, 
having  fished  them  out  of  the  depths  of  an  old  portfolio. 
He  liked  not  at  all  the  look  of  them — they  were  written 
in  a  bold,  masculine  hand — and  he  had  grown  as  jea- 
lous and  as  unreasonably  so,  as  a  young  husband  at  the 
first  season  with  his  wife  at  Saratoga.  So  he  had 
been  in  any  thing  but  a  good  humour,  while  writing  the 
song,  and  had  dashed  in  two  or  three  astounding  cross- 
grained  chords,  at  the  close  of  the  refrain,  not  at  all 
in  keeping  with  the  tender  sentiment  of  the  words. 

"  It  is  certainly  a  fine  melody,"  said  she,  running  it 
over;  "but  something  too  sad  and  energetic  for  the 
sentiment.  And  these  horrid  chords  at  the  end — why, 
I  should  think  you  had  been  practising  for  a  new 
witches'  dance!" 

"  Yes — laugh  at  me  as  much  as  you  please — I  de- 
serve it  all,  and  a  thousand  times  as  much  more.  I 
am  a  fool — and  you  are  quite  right  in  laughing  at  and 
despising  me.     I  despise  myself!  " 

"Why,  Mr.  Wilmar,   what  is  the  matter?     What 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  247 

have  I  said  to  wound  you  ?  I  did  not  mean  any  harm 
— I  would  not  laugh  at  you,  or  pain  you  in  any  way, 
for  the  world — indeed  I  would  not.  Pray  forgive 
me ! "  and  she  bent  over  him,  and  looked  into  his  face 
w^ith  such  tenderness  in  those  wondrous  eyes,  such  sin- 
cerity and  sympathy,  and  affection,  in  her  gentle  face, 
that  he  was  carried  out  of  himself.  He  suddenly 
caught  her  hand — he  pressed  it  to  his  burning  lips — 
he  drew  her  towards  him,  murmuring  in  a  broken  and 
weeping  voice, 

"Oh,  Felice!  Pardon  me!  I  am  mad!  But  I 
love  you!  oh,  I  love  you!" 

She  did  not  start ;  but  she  gently  drew  her  hand 
away,  and  stood  erect  before  him.  There  was  an  in- 
effably sad  and  yet  tender  expression  on  her  face,  and 
her  eyes  seemed  as  if  they  would  have  filled  with  tears, 
had  not  a  strong  will  kept  them  imprisoned  in  her 
heart. 

He  looked  up  pleadingly. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me !     Do  not  send  me  away  from  you 
I  will  never  offend  you  again  ! " 

"  Poor  child !  "  murmured  Felice,  in  a  soft,  caressing 
tone;  "poor  Arthur!  He  has  not  offended  me — see, 
I  am  not  angry ! "  and  taking  his  head  in  her  hands, 
ehe  laid  the  burning  and  throbbing  temple  on  her  bo- 
som. There,  on  that  strong,  truthful,  and  noble  heart, 
the  poor  boy's  paroxysm  subsided,  and  it  seemed  that 
a  portion  of  its  own  serenity  and  repose  had  entered 
into  his  brain. 

At  length  he  looked  up.     He  had  not  at  all  misin- 


248  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

terpreted  her  sjDontaneous  action  :  lie  did  not  dream  of 
presuming  upon  it :  he  understood  it  for  just  what  it 
was — the  affectionate  caress  of  a  sister,  of  a  dear  friend, 
who  loved  and  felt  for  him. 

"  Can  you  forgive  my  violence  ?  "  said  he. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive.  I  am  honoured  by 
your  love,  Arthur.  But  I  do  not  accept  it,  as  you 
would  now  have  me  do.  You  have  not  sufficiently  tried 
youi'  own  heart.  Many  other  emotions  may  have  com- 
bined to  deceive  your  inexperience.  For  myself,  I 
have  the  profoundest  affection  for  you,  which,  under 
favourable  circumstances,  may  ripen  into  love — no,  no ! 
I  do  not  say  it  will — but  it  may,  and  I  love  no  other, 
nor  have  I  had  a  thought  of  loving,  since  the  father 
of  my  children  died.  It  is  an  idea  with  which  I 
should  not  easily  familiarize  myself.  Watch  your- 
self— study  yourself  and  your  own  sensations,  care- 
fully. Remember,  too,  my  dear  "VYilmar,  that  we  are 
somewhat  mismatched  in  years — though  loving  hearts 
are  ever  young.  Think  well  of  it ;  and  let  this  inter- 
view be  as  if  it  had  never  been,  until  we  both  are 
impelled,  by  a  mutual  desire,  to  renew  the  remem- 
brance of  it.     Will  you  promise  me  all  this?  " 

"Yes,  yes — all,  anything — so  that  you  do  not  drive 
me  away  from  you!  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  we  are  better  friends  than  ever; 
for  whatever  may  be  our  future,  at  least  we  need  not 
deprive  ourselves  of  that  greatest  and  truest  of  all 
consolations,  next  to  love  itself — a  faithful  and  fer- 
vent friendship." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  249 

"Oh,  bless  you!" 

"Are  you  calm  and  happy,  now?  " 

"Yes — calm  and  happy — very  calm  and  happy.  1 
will  never  be  mad  again." 

"Come,  then,  let  us  try  the  song — and  cut  out 
those  horrid  chords !  You  really  were  not  jealous  of 
that  scrap  of  paper,  and  those  verses,  you  absurd 
boy!" 

"  Oh,  I  was — frightfully  jealous  !  " 

"But  of  whom?" 

"Whoever  it  was  that  wTote  them,  and  gave  them 
to  you!" 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  They  are  the 
words  of  a  Venetian  serenade,  and  were  transcribed 
for  me  at  Milan,  by  an  old  gentlemen  of  sixty,  who  had 
a  wife  as  old  as  himself,  of  whom  he  was  devotedly 
fond,  and  two  daughters  considerably  older  than  I  was. 
The  words  are  a  translation  from  the  pretty  Venetian 
dialect,  which  I  understand  but  imperfectly.  There  1 
I  have  given  you  an  explanation,  which  you  might 
have  sighed  for  in  vain,  if  you  really  were  my  lover ! 
Are  you  satisfied?  " 

"  Oh,  Felice ! — I  dare  not  despair  ! — God  cannot 
have  created  me  for  so  much  misery,  as  not  to  make 
you  love  me!" 

"Meanwhile,"  said  she,  with  a  frank  and  playful 
smile;  "let  us  sing  my  old  friend's  Venetian  sere- 
nade." 

Sebastian  Bach  would  have  got  some  new  ideas  of 
counterpoint,  if  he  had  been  there  to  listen  to  the  ex 
temporized  accompaniment  of  the  young  pianist ! 


250  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


OUR  TWO  YOUNG  LADIES. 


We  really  must  beg  pardon  of  the  young  ladies — 
not  only  of  our  own  two  special  young  ladies,  who  are 
at  this  moment  putting  on  their  "things"  for  the  pui-- 
pose  of  promenading  through  Chestnut  street  and  this 
chapter — but  of  all  the  charming  class  of  young  ladies, 
who  may  do  us  the  honour  of  accompanying  them  on 
this  expedition — for  having  so  long  given  them  the  go- 
by. But  having  now  succeeded  in  getting  the  mob  of 
hum-drum  characters  who  form  the  staple  of  our  story, 
into  a  pretty  general  state  of  uneasiness — some  in 
love,  some  in  jail,  and  all  in  some  sort  of  a  dilemma, 
such  as  novel-readers  especially  delight  in — we  will 
leave  them  to  coolly  reflect  upon  their  past  lives  and 
future  prospects,  and  offer  our  arm  to  the  young  la- 
dies— for  whom,  let  us  whisper  in  their  ear,  our  book 
is  exclusively  written. 

Miss  Jemima  Jenkins,  whom  we  last  saw  flourishing 
like  an  immense  parti-coloured  dahlia,  at  Mrs.  Valen- 
tine's matinee  musicale,  was  by  no  means  pleased  with 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  251 

the  comparatively  obscure  part  which  she  had  taken 
in  that  interesting  ceremony.  In  fact,  owing  to  her 
soft-heartedness,  in  following  what  now  appeared  to 
her  the  malicious  advice  of  Mrs.  Henderson,  she  had 
for  once,  found  herself  too  conspicuous ;  and  had,  as 
we  have  already  mentioned,  hidden  herself  behind  a 
door,  where  she  lay — to  use  the  patriotic  expression 
of  Mrs.  Balderskin — buried  in  the  American  flag, 
throughout  the  whole  of  that  occasion.  Nor,  while 
thus  reposing  in  a  state  of  inactivity  as  disagreeable 
as  it  was  unusual  to  her,  could  she  avoid  hearing  se- 
veral allusions  to  her  costume,  not  at  all  compli- 
mentary, observing  the  "nods,  and  becks  and  wreathed 
smiles,"  which  passed  from  one  to  the  other  of  her  ac- 
quaintances, upon  her  novel  and  somewhat  astounding 
style  of  habiliment. 

Now,  Miss  Jenkins — although  she  was  strictly  a 
young  lady,  not  being  yet  married — had  arrived  at 
that  age  when  the  milk  of  human  kindness  generally 
dries  up  or  curdles  in  the  human  bosom :  and,  although 
we  of  course  cannot  undertake  to  say  what  was  the 
exact  consistence  of  that  delicate  commodity  on  the 
present  occasion,  yet  we  do  know,  that  Miss  Jenkins 
left  the  drawing-room  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Valentine,, 
in  a  state  of  high  dudgeon;  and  we  are  enabled  to 
state,  on  the  authority  of  her  maid,  whom  we  bribed 
with  a  new  bonnet  into  our  service — that  upon  reach- 
ing her  own  room,  that  sacred  sanctuary  of  virgin  in- 
nocence was  startled  with  the  reverberation  of  several 
of  the  smartest  and  most  piquant  feminine  oaths  then 


252  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

current  in  good  society,  and  which  apparently  pro- 
ceeded from  the  lips  of  its  mistress. 

However,  having  speedily  divested  herself  of  her 
unfortunate  red  and  blue  gown,  wondering,  as  she 
now  looked  at  it  hanging  over  a  chair,  how  she  could 
ever  have  been  so  egregious  a  dupe  as  to  have  put  it 
on,  she  divested  herself  of  the  other  spoils  of  beauty, 
and  got  into  bed,  where  she  dreamed  all  night  that 
she  was  a  fourth  of  July  procession,  and  saw  herself 
carried  by,  on  a  platform,  ornamented  with  red  and 
blue  flags,  and  borne  by  twenty-four  firemen,  dressed 
in  red  shirts  and  sky-blue  trowsers. 

The  next  day  was  destined  to  bring  a  "pain  ex- 
tractor" to  the  damsel's  wounded  vanity,  in  that  most 
acceptable  of  all  shapes — the  news  of  the  misfortune 
of  others.  Scarcely  had  she  risen,  and  from  the  scat- 
tered materials  and  occult  mysteries  of  the  dressing- 
table,  reconstituted  herself  that  mortal  personification 
of  loveliness  known  to  men  as  Jemima  Jenkins ;  thrust 
the  ofi'ending  red  and  blue  dress  into  a  dark  closet, 
and  carefully  smoothed  the  wrinkles  from  her  brow 
and  her  splendid  broad-striped  moire  antique  walking- 
dress — when  she  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  her 
friend  and  pretty  cousin,  Sarah  Henderson. 

"Why,  cousin  Sarah!"  exclaimed  Jemima — she 
loved  to  call  the  fresh,  handsome  young  girl  her 
cousin;  it  sounded  so  youthful  and  affectionate ! — 
"how  delighted  I  am  to  see  you!  I  was  this  minute 
coming  round  to  get  you  to  go  with  me  for  a  walk  in 
Chestnut  street,  and  to  tell  me  all  the  news.     Well — 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  253 

how  did  the  grand  dinner  go  off?  I  suppose  aunt 
Henderson  was  very  angry  at  my  not  being  there — 
but  then  I  had  promised  Mrs.  Valentine,  and  I  could 
not  get  away.     How  did  it  all  go  off? " 

"  Oh,  such  news,  cousin  Jemima !  Mamma  is  in 
such  a  terrible  way !  She  has  been  writing  notes  of 
apology  all  the  morning,  ever  since  breakfast — and  she 
is  so  cross  and  snappish,  that  we  had  quite  a  regular 
tiff — for  you  know,  my  dear  Jemima,  that  I  am  a 
young  woman,  now,  and  not  to  be  snubbed  like  a 
baby — and  so  I  came  away  to  you,  to  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

"Well,  that  was  right,  my  dear — but  what  is  it  all 
about?     What  has  happened?  " 

"Oh,  you  know  that  Mrs.  Attarby?  Well!  there 
was  such  a  nice  company  came  to  dinner — the  largest 
party  that  ma  ever  received — and  all  dying  with  curi- 
osity to  see  the  great  actress — when,  just  as  they 
were  going  to  sit  down  to  dinner,  a  note  was  received 
from  Mrs.  Attarby" — 

"Oh,  ho!"  interrupted  Jemima,  beginning  already, 
in  the  anticipated  discomfiture  of  her  aunt,  to  forget 
her  own  mortifications ;  "  so  she  didn't  come  after  all ! 
How  mortified  aunt  Henderson  must  have  been ! " 

"  Oh,  yes — she  came  :  but  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
In  the  first  place  came  the  note,  saying  that  she  could 
not  be  there  for  dinner,  as  she  had  just  returned  from 
the  country;  but  that  she  would  arrive  in  time  for 
the  reading.  The  dinner,  notwithstanding  that  there 
was  such  a  large  party,  was  terribly  stupid,  and  every 

90 


254  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

body  kept  looking  at  their  "vvatchcs,  and  waiting  for 
the  grand  ceremonies  to  begin.  At  last,  just  at  eight 
o'clock,  when  we  had  all  taken  our  places  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  were  waiting,  exactly  as  we  do  at 
the  philharmonic  concert  at  the  Chinese  Museum,  for 
the  performances  to  begin,  Mrs.  Attarby  arrived." 

"  Alone  ?     How  improper !  " 

''Oh,  no — not  alone;  Mrs.  Captain  Wallingford 
came  with  her,  and  mamma  hurried  to  meet  them  at 
the  door,  and  led  Mrs.  Attarby  to  her  seat,  at  the  up- 
per end  of  the  room.  But  when  she  sat  down,  and 
every  body  stretched  their  necks  to  get  a  good  look 
at  her — I  declare,  Jemima,  I  can't  finish!  I  am 
ashamed  to  tell  you !  " 

"Nonsense,  child!  What  was  it?  I'm  on  pins 
and  needles!"  exclaimed  the  impatient  spinster. 

"Well,  cousin  Jemima,  you  know,  she  had  on  a 
white  satin  dress,  with  a  low  body ;  and,  oh,  cousin ! 
it  was  cut  clear  off  the  shoulders,  and  came  down  in 
the  middle,  as  sure  as  I  am  alive,  as  low  as  that!''' 
and  the  blushing  maiden  indicated,  with  the  point  of  her 
glove,  a  spot  on  Miss  Jemima's  person,  directly  over 
the  region  where  that  juvenile  lady  was  sometimes 
troubled  with  the  dyspepsia. 

"No!  it  isn't  possible! — not  as  low  as  that!"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Jenkins;  "but  then,  of  coui^se,  she  wore 
a  tucker?" 

"Not  a  sign  of  one ! — Not  a  stitch  of  any  thing  but 
her  bare  skin!"  exclaimed  Sarah,  turning  away  her 
face,  and  blushing  all  colours,  at  the  bare  recollection. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  255 

*'But  what  was  the  consequence  ?  " 

"Oh,  dreadful!  At  first,  the  ladies  stared,  and 
then  hid  their  faces  behind  their  fans  and  handker- 
chiefs, but  I  saw  some  of  them  peeping  out  from  under 
the  corners,  to  get  another  look  !  Then  thej  looked 
at  one  another;  and  then  they  all  got  up  and  went 
away,  without  saying  a  word  to  mamma,  who  sat  down 
on  a  sofa,  and  cried  for  shame  and  spite.  Then  Mrs. 
Attarby  and  Mrs.  Wallingford,  who  was  dressed  ex- 
actly like  her  friend,  looked  at  each  other,  and  laughed ; 
and  then  they  got  up,  and  Mrs.  Attarby  stopped  be- 
fore mamma,  and  made  a  speech  about  purple  tears 
and  the  downfall  of  houses ;  and  then  she  and  Mrs. 
Wallingford  got  into  their  carriage  and  drove  away. 
I  had  hid  myself  behind  the  piano,  and  saw  every 
thing." 

"Aunt  Henderson  must  have  been  furious  !  " 

"  Oh,  she  was  that !  But  now  tell  me  all  about  the 
affair  at  Mrs.  Valentine's.  Did  the  concert  go  off 
well  ?  And  poor  Arthur — I  mean,  Mr.  Wilmar — how 
did  he  play? — how  did  he  look?  " 

"  Oh,  he  played  and  looked  in  a  way  that  wouldn't 
have  pleased  you,  very  much,  I  suspect!"  said  Jemi- 
ma, looking  maliciously  at  her  cousin,  whose  confu- 
sion betrayed  the  tender  interest  she  felt  in  her  young 
and  handsome  maestro.     "He  had  eyes  only  for  that 

Madame  de  Saintlieu — he  is  certainlv  in  love  with  her 

«/ 

— there's  no  mistake  about  it !  " 

Sarah  thought  she  would  have  fallen.     But  sup- 


Zob  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

porting  herself  by  the  back  of  a  chair,  she  said,  in  as 
cahn  a  voice  as  she  coukl, 

"And  she — I  suppose  she  Laughs  at  him  for  his 
pains.  Why,  she  has  got  two  chiklren,  hasn't  she? 
She  must  be  as  okl  as  you ! " 

"  Oomph ! — Well,  cousin,  /haven't  got  two  children; 
have  I  ?  You  needn't  be  cross  at  me,  because  I  acci- 
dentally touched  a  tender  spot.  I  did  not  know  that 
you  were  in  love  with  your  music  master !  " 

"I  in  love  with  Arthur — Wilmar!"  exclaimed  the 
little  beauty,  getting  as  red  as  one  of  the  flounces  of 
Miss  Jemima's  gala-dress;  "what  nonsense  you  do 
talk,  cousin  ! " 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  think  I  am  so  old  as  to  be  blind, 
cousin !  "  said  Miss  Jenkins,  with  a  juvenile  toss  of  the 
head.     "I  can  see  as  far  as  most  people." 

"Now,  don't  be  so  provoking,  cousin!  I  didn't 
mean  any  harm  by  what  I  said.  Why,  there  is  Mrs. 
Balderskin  has  had  two  children,  and  she  isn't  thirty, 
yet !  I  didn't  mean  any  thing,  cousin,  upon  my  word 
I  didn't!  Now  do  be  good,  and  don't  tell  mamma 
any  of  your  absurd  ideas  about  me  and  Mr.  Wilmar. 
If  you  did,  she  would  send  him  aw^ay  directly, — and 
he's  such  an  excellent  teacher !  Oh,  he's  taught  me 
so  many  things  that  I  never  knew  before !  " 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  you  little  pussy  !  "  said  Jemima, 
in  a  mollified  voice,  and  patting  Sarah's  smooth  face, 
— for  she  was  not  implacable,  and  really  had  a  great 
aifection  for  her  cousin.  "  Well,  well !  you  may  trust 
me     I  won't  betray  you.    But  what  is  to  be  done  about 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  257 

Edward  Ingraham  ?     You  know  your  motlier  has  set 
lier  heart  on  that  match  for  jou." 

''Oh!"  said  Sarah,  with  a  pretty  little  pout;  "Mr. 
Ingraham  was  very  pressing,  and  mamma  thought  it 
would  be  an  excellent  match ;  but  papa  wouldn't  hear 
of  it.  And  for  once  he  got  the  best  of  it,  and  mamma 
had  to  give  up.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Ingraham  is  very  rich, 
and  very  good  looking — but  he  hasn't  got  such  sweet 
eyes  as  Mr.  Wilmar;  and  then  you  know  Arthur's 
family  is  as  good  as  our  own — only  they  are  poor.  I 
thought  it  would  be  so  noble,  so  romantic,  you  know, 
to  enrich  the  struggling  man  of  genius,  with  my  love 
and  my  fortune — and  I  did  love  him,  and  I  meant  to 
tell  him  so — and  run  away  with  him — and  then  come 
back  and  throw  ourselves  on  our  knees,  and  ask  papa's 
forgiveness  and  his  blessing,  you  know!  And  now 
this  ugly  Madame  de  Saintlieu  must  come  and  take 
him  away  from  me  !  "  continued  the  girl,  beginning  to 
sob,  and  throwing  herself  into  her  cousin's  arms. 

"There,  there,  poor  little  thing!  don't  cry!  "  said 
Jemima,  soothingly,  and  charmed  with  the  idea  of  a 
runaway  match  and  a  romantic  denoeument.  "It  may 
not  be  so  bad — I  may  be  mistaken,  probably  they 
were  only  talking  about  music,  after  all.  But  I'll 
find  out  all  about  it  for  you,  little  puss !  I'm  not  the 
woman  to  stand  in  the  way  of  a  true  love  match — my 
own  heart  is  too  susceptible  to  the  tender  passion !"  she 
added,  with  a  lugubrious  sigh.  "But  have  you  never 
seen  Mr.  Ingraham  since  your  father  forbid  that 
match?" 

22* 


258  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"  Yes — I  saw  him  once  at  Parkinson's,  with  mamma. 
He  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  talk  with  me,  but  he  was 
afraid  of  mamma — for  papa  had  given  it  out  that  it 
was  she  who  had  opposed  the  match ;  and  so  he  only 
bowed  and  smiled,  and  looked  very  hard  at  me,  and 
went  away." 

"Well,  come,  let  us  go  and  walk  in  Chestnut  street ; 
it  will  calm  our  agitated  spirits,"  said  the  sensitive 
Jemima.  "I  feel  myself  quite  overcome  by  all  these 
exciting  emotions.  We  can  stop  at  Parkinson's,  and 
take  a  glass  of  lemonade  glacee:  it  will  do  us  good." 

"Oh,  I  shall  like  that  of  all  things!"  exclaimed 
Sarah.  "You  know  that  mamma  has  forbidden  me  to 
go  to  Parkinson's  by  myself:  she  says  it  isn't  proper. 
But  then  mamma  is  so  absurd !  Don't  all  the  young 
ladies  go  to  Parkinson's  with  their  beaux,  or  by  them- 
selves ?  I'm  sure  there  can  be  no  harm  in  it.  Mr. 
Parkinson  is  such  a  love  of  a  little  man !  so  polite  and 
so  attentive!" 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  saw  any  thing  out  of  the  way, 
there.  It  always  seems  to  me  as  much  like  a  first-day 
meeting  of  our  people,  as  anything  else — every  thing 
is  so  grand  and  silent !  I  sometimes  fe^^.l  as  if  I  wanted 
to  make  a  speech,  or  do  something  to  make  a  sensa- 
tion! " 

"  Come,  let  us  go !  I  must  be  home  at  two  o'clock 
to  take  my  music-lesson.  Mr.  Wilmar  has  not  been 
for  several  days,  now ;  he  said  he  had  to  practise  for 
that  horrid  Madame  de  Saintlieu's  matinee.  I'm  sure 
I  am  very  glad  it  is  over  at  last !  I  hope  she  won't 
give  any  more  !  " 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  259 

Our  two  young  ladies  now  went  out,  and  took  their 
way  to  Chestnut  street,  which  was  already  crowded  with 
gaily  dressed  and  smiling  promenaders.  The  shops 
were  all  trimmed  out  in  their  brightest  colours,  and 
the  pavement  was  thronged  with  omnibusses  and  car- 
riages— while  in  front  of  the  fashionable  shops,  long 
lines  of  the  private  equipages  of  our  first  families  were 
drawn  up  at  the  curbstone,  while  their  mistresses  were 
engaged  in  the  pleasing  and  mysterious  rites  of  shop- 
ping, flirting  with  the  smiling  clerks,  and  talking  over 
the  scandal  and  gossip  of  the  day — which  the  inci- 
dents of  the  previous  day  and  evening,  at  the  two 
"rival  houses  "  of  Henderson  and  Valentine,  had  made 
peculiarly  racy  and  exciting.  The  clerks  and  sales- 
men at  Levy's  were  astonished  at  the  sudden  and  in- 
creased demand  for  white  satin,  and  the  total  cessation 
of  the  trade  in  tulle  muslins ;  while  Madame  Basquine, 
the  great  fashionable  dress-maker,  declared  that  she 
didn't  know  what  the  ladies'  fashions  were  comino-  to. 
and  prophesied  a  speedy  return  to  the  classic  simplicity 
of  the  days  of  Madame  Tallien  and  the  revolution  of 
'93. 

As  they  passed  Levy's,  Madame  de  Saintlieu  and 
Mrs.  Loftus  were  just  coming  out  to  get  into  their 
carriage.  They  stopped  a  moment  to  speak  to  Miss 
Jenkins,  and  Sarah  was  introduced  to  Madame  de 
Saintlieu, — the  French  woman  wondering  and  shrug- 
ging her  shoulders,  at  this  characteristic  American 
party  on  the  sidewalk.  Sarah  examined  her  rival  with 
the  keenest  interest,  and  tried  to  persuade  herself  that 


260  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

her  own  charms  and  dollars,  (for  young  ladies  soon 
find  out  the  value  of  money  in  the  matrimonial  market,) 
would  secure  her  ascendency  over  the  heart  of  Arthur 
Wilmar. 

At  this  moment,  a  carriage  drove  briskly  up  to  the 
sidewalk,  and  Mrs.  "VVallingford  and  Mrs.  Attarby  got 
out,  and  came  up  to  the  group.  Sarah  drew  back, 
behind  Miss  Jenkins ;  but  Mrs.  Attarby  took  no  notice 
of  her;  and  going  up  to  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  was 
presented  by  Mrs.  Wallingford. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Madame  de  Saintlieu!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Attarby;  "you  must  not  look  so  annoyed  at  hold- 
ing an  involuntary  levee  on  the  sidewalk — that  is  quite 
according  to  our  democratic  ideas  in  America.  I  used 
to  be  quite  shocked  at  it ;  but  I  am  now  a  furious  re- 
publican, and  find  the  sidewalk  and  the  door-step  just 
the  thing  for  sociability,  and  a  charming  substitute  for 
the  dismal  drawing-room  !  I  have  been  dying  to  know 
you,  and  I  really  trust  that  you  will  come  and  see  me 
— or  allow  me  to  come  to  see  you — just  as  you  choose 
to  be  American  or  European." 

"I  shall  be  extremely  happy,  and  I  do  not  doubt 
Mrs.  Loftus,  who  is  at  present  my  hostess,  will  let  me 
take  a  liberty  with  her  kind  hospitality,  and  invite  you 
to  her  house." 

"I  shall  be  too  much  honoured,  my  dear  Madame; 
you  know  my  house  is  your  own,  "  replied  Mrs.  Loftus, 
slightly  bowing  to  Mrs.  Attarby,  and  speaking  in  a 
constrained  though  kindly  voice,  to  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  2G1 

"I  thank  you  sincerely,  my  dear  Mrs.  Loftus,"  said 
Mrs.  Attarby,  with  one  of  her  irresistible  smiles: 
"  and  if  you  will  only  permit  me,  I  do  not  despair  of 
even  making  you  like  me  a  little  better  than  I  know 

you  do  at  present." 

"Madam,  I " 

"  Oh,  no  offence,  my  dear  Mrs.  Loftus  !  I  have  got 
beyond  all  the  convenahles,  and  mean  to  find  out  and 
love  all  the  good  people — and  I  know  you  are  one  of 
them — and  what  is  more,  I  mean  to  make  them  all 
love  me  in  return !  So,  I  give  you  fair  warning ! — 
Beware!" 

Then,  with  a  dashing  bow,  and  a  gay  laugh,  she  made 
a  friendly  gesture  to  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  and  with 
her  friend  Mrs.  Wallingford,  went  into  the  shop — while 
Jemima  and  Sarah  continued  their  walk,  and  Mrs. 
Loftus  and  the  astonished  Madame  de  Saintlieu  en- 
tered their  carriage  and  drove  homeward. 

"I  do  not  wonder  at  your  surprise,"  said  Mrs. 
Loftus,  with  her  kind  smile;  "but  you  have  many 
things  yet  to  learn,  in  our  democratic  country.  Above 
all  things  let  me  repeat  her  own  warning,  addressed 
to  me  by  Mrs.  Attarby — beware  of  her  !  You  know 
I  never  indulge  in  gossip  or  scandal.  But  I  feel  for 
you  the  interest  and  affection  of  a  mother ;  and  I  know 
how  easy  it  would  be  for  you,  with  your  unsuspicious 
nature,  inexperienced  in  the  littleness,  the  jealousy, 
the  cowardiee,  of  American  ^exclusive'  society,  to 
utterly  destroy  your  position  and  prospects,  without 
an  act  or  thought  of  wrong.     Mrs.  Attarby  is  wealthy, 


262  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

and  is  the  wife  of  a  man  whose  position  cannot  be 
questioned — and  she  is  tolerated  by  a  society  that 
hates  and  fears  her.  But  let  her  be  deprived  of  her 
wealth  and  nominal  position,  as  the  wife  of  Granger 
Attarby,  and  they  would  trample  her  in  the  dust,  with- 
out pity  or  remorse.  I  know  them,  my  child — and 
you  must  learn  to  know  them  too." 

^'My  dear  friend,  I  will  be  guided  by  you  in  all 
things ;  I  will  not  see  Mrs.  Attarby — I  will  not  be  at 
home  when  she  calls." 

"  Oh,  no — not  that — it  is  unnecessary  to  make  an 
open  enemy  of  her  or  her  friend  Mrs.  Wallingford. 
See  her,  and  act  as  your  own  good  sense,  now  that  I 
have  told  you  her  real  standing,  shall  dictate." 

"But  what  has  she  done?  " 

"Nothing,  that  I  know  of,  except  committed  some 
eccentric  violations  of  the  forms  and  conventionalities 
of  etiquette,  habits  and  costume.  But  it  is  not  for 
those  that  she  is  hated  and  condemned." 

"  Do  they  bring  any  charges  against  her  character  ?  " 

"No,  none  that  I  ever  heard  of;  and  they  certainly 
would  have  done  so  if  they  could." 

"For  what,  then  is  she  condemned?" 

"  For  the  crime  which  women  in  society  never  for- 
give in  their  own  sex — for  being  their  superior,"  said 
Mrs.  Loftus,  with  a  disdainful  smile;  "be  careful,  my 
dear  friend,  that  you  do  not  incur  their  hatred  and 
persecution  for  the  same  offence  !  " 

"It  is  for  my  darlings! "  murmured  the  wondering 
Felice,  sinking  back  on  her  seat,  dismayed  at  all  she 
heard;  "all  for  them!     God,  give  me  strength!  " 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  263 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


RESTITUTION. 


Ira  Henderson  paced  up  and  down  his  cell,  fierce 
and  silent  as  those  wild  beasts  who  go  to  and  fro  in 
their  iron  cages,  shaking  the  bars  with  their  paws, 
and  glaring  at  the  spectators  with  eyes  of  fire.  We 
have  said  he  was  no  coward ;  and  what  he  now  felt 
was  a  hatred  of  mankind,  and  of  a  world  he  so  long 
had  juggled  and  deceived,  but  which  now  threatened  to 
avenge  itself  upon  him,  for  not  only  his  own  crimes, 
but  those  of  others.  But  he  had  no  fear.  He  did 
not  quail,  he  did  not  lament,  he  did  not  curse.  What 
he  had  now  to  do,  was  to  reflect,  to  resolve,  and  to 
act.  He  knew  he  was  not  guilty  of  the  crime  for 
which  he  had  been  arrested — but  appearances  and  cir- 
cumstances were  all  against  him — and  he  had  laughed 
to  scorn  the  idea  of  an  over-ruling  Providence,  who 
would  protect  the  innocent.  Had  not  his  whole  lite 
been  an  outrage  upon  his  pious  profession  of  that  be- 
lief? Besides,  even  if  there  were  some  mysterious 
power,  who  distributed  inexorable  and  infinite  justice, 
what  had  he  to  expect  from  its  exercise  ?  True,  he 
had  not  committed  murder;  but  he  had  crowned  a  life 


264  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

of  fraud  and  perfidy,  by  reducing  to  beggary  the 
family  of  the  friend  who  had  trusted  him  on  his  death- 
bed, with  their  happiness,  and  by  a  deliberate  attempt 
to  dishonour  his  daughter.  One  by  one,  in  ghastly 
procession,  all  his  past  deeds  arose  before  him,  and 
compelled  him  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  himself;  and 
the  verdict  of  his  own  soul  condemned  him  to  destruc- 
tion. 

But,  to  add  to  these  crushing  retrospections,  came 
the  terrible  weight  of  his  present  actual  position. — 
Could  he  clear  himself  of  this  murder?  Even  could 
Helen  Wilmar  be  induced  to  testify  to  the  truth  of  all 
she  knew,  she  might,  indeed,  disclose  the  infamous 
purpose  for  which  he  was  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Antho- 
ny ;  but  she  could  not  possibly  declare  that  he  did  not 
commit  the  murder.  He  had  left  her  at  a  little  after 
midnight;  and  at  three  o'clock,  as  he  was  preparing  to 
return  to  her  chamber,  a  scream  was  heard,  which 
startled  him,  and  aroused  Mrs.  Anthony,  both  of  whom 
had  hastened  up  stairs.  Going  to  Helen's  chamber, 
he  found  it  empty ;  and  in  returning  to  the  stairs,  he 
had  encountered  the  blood,  and  met  Mrs.  Anthony, 
and  both  had  then  entered  the  other  chamber,  and 
found  the  corpse  of  the  murdered  girl.  Where  was 
Helen  all  this  time  ?  how  had  she  escaped  from  her 
chamber  ?  and  how  long  had  she  been  gone  ?  These 
questions  remained  unanswered. 

There  were,  evidently,  but  two  ways  by  which  he 
could  be  relieved  of  this  charge :  one,  was  the  testi- 
mony of  Mrs.  Anthony,  and  the  other,  was  the  disco- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  265 

very  of  the  real  murderer.  But  was  there  any  hope 
that  the  woman,  his  creature,  would  endanger  her  own 
safety, — encounter  the  absolute  certainty  of  a  heavy 
penalty  for  keeping  a  disorderly  house,  and  the  risk 
of  a  prosecution  as  an  accessary  to  the  murder,  by 
coming  forward  and  putting  herself  into  the  hands  of 
the  law  ?  He,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  Ingraham's 
arrest,  and  supposed  that  he  alone  was  suspected  of 
the  crime. 

Then,  would  Helen  come  forward  and  testify  in  his 
behalf!  What  right,  what  reason,  had  he  to  hope 
that  she  would  voluntarily  subject  herself  to  a  public 
acknowledgment  of  the  outrage  and  insult  she  had 
suffered,  to  save  the  life  of  the  author  and  perpetrator  ? 
Would  not  her  indignation  rather  suffer  him  to  be 
punished  for  the  crime  of  which  he  was  not  guilty,  in 
expiation  of  the  wrongs  to  her,  which  he  had  commit- 
ted? He  questioned  his  own  heart. — Would  he  not 
so  act  ?  yes — yes — a  thousand  times,  yes  ! 

Still,  this  did  not  quite  convince  him  that  he  had 
nothing  to  hope  from  Helen.  He  knew  that  the  ten- 
der heart  and  the  upright  conscience  of  a  young  girl, 
were  actual  existences — for  she  herself  had  convinced 
him  of  it,  in  disdaining  his  temptations,  and  spurning 
his  brilliant  offers.  But  now,  if  by  merely  testifying 
to  the  truth,  and  thus  saving  the  life  of  a  human  being 
— even  if  that  being  were  her  enemy — she  could  re- 
gain the  fortune  of  herself,  her  brother  and  sisters,  and 
see  them  all  restored  to  their  former  position — he 
23 


266  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

thought  she  ayouUI  not  hesitate.  But  how  to  approach 
her? — how  to  communicate  with  her?  "Whom  could 
he  intrust  with  so  delicate,  so  difficult,  so  momentous 
a  negotiation?  Mr.  Spearbill?  No. — He  already 
knew  of  the  fraud  by  which  the  fortune  of  the  Wilmars 
had  been  alienated.  He  had  shared  liberally  in  the 
spoils,  and  was  not  the  man  to  refund  a  dollar.  Be- 
sides, he  had  the  power  in  his  hands,  and  would  inevi- 
tably divert  the  whole  of  the  fortune  to  his  own  use, 
if  the  subject  were  once  agitated.  Dr.  Felton, — yes  ! 
He  was  the  man !  The  thought  was  a  gleam  of  light. 
The  doctor  had  remained  the  firm  friend  of  the  family, 
under  all  their  sufferings  and  afflictions.  He  sympa- 
thized deeply  with  the  loss  of  their  fortune,  and  would 
rejoice  in  its  restoration. 

And  this  fortune,  after  all,  what  was  it  ?  In  the 
mighty  financial  schemes,  of  which  he  was  the  invisi- 
ble head  and  mover — schemes  which  embraced  the 
whole  Union,  from  New  York  to  California,  in  a  wide 
circle  of  financial  fraud,  and  even  mingled  their  in- 
fluences in  the  monetary  and  political  movements  of 
Europe — a  system  which  he  had  himself  conceived, 
and  which  the  fortune  of  Wilmar  had  at  length  ena- 
bled him  to  set  in  operation — in  this  gigantic  scheme, 
whose  vast  resources  might  mark  the  hours  of  the  day 
with  its  millions — what  was  now  the  insignificant  sum 
of  which  he  had  robbed  them  ?  Nothing — a  trifle  ! — 
Let  it  go !  Let  him  but  be  once  free  of  this  accusa- 
tion and  this  hateful  cell,  and  a  single  month  would 
replenish  his  treasury  for  this  loss.     Yes — Dr.  Felton 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  267 

was  the  man — he  felt  quite  sure  of  it,  and  quite  confi- 
dent of  success. 

But  he  must  wait  till  morning.  Morning ! — When 
would  it  be  morning  ?  He  had  already  paced  up  and 
down  the  cell,  as  it  would  seem,  at  least  a  year — and 
yet  he  had  seen  no  light,  since  the  last  rays  of  sunset 
had  left  the  narrow  window  of  the  cell,  crept  over  the 
brown  court-yard,  climbed  the  dull  gray  wall,  and  lost 
themselves  in  the  darkness.  He  must  still  walk  up 
and  down,  and  wait. 

He  had  not  tasted  food  for  many  hours.  Until 
now,  he  had  not  thought  of  that;  but  now,  that  he 
seemed  to  have  discovered  a  clue  that  would  lead  him 
out  of  this  dark  labyrinth,  the  mind  grew  calm,  and 
the  body  asserted  its  wants.  He  had  noticed  nothing 
that  had  transpired  since  he  was  put  into  the  cell,  and 
knew  not  whether  they  had  left  him  any  food,  or  how 
he  was  to  ask  for  it;  and  yet,  he  now  began  to  feel 
faint  with  hunger.  Going  to  the  iron  door  of  his  cell, 
with  the  intention  of  calling  some  one,  he  found,  on 
the  little  shelf  made  by  the  fall  of  the  wicket  in  the 
inner  door,  a  basin  of  some  liquid  substance,  which  he 
supposed  was  soup.  He  drank  it  down  voraciously — 
not  stopping  to  inquire  too  curiously  into  its  flavour — 
and  then  resumed  his  monotonous  walk. 

By-and-by,  he  felt  so  much  relieved  and  en- 
couraged, by  the  plan  of  action  he  bad  marked  out, 
that  he  rolled  himself  in  some  blankets  he  found  in 
one  corner  of  the  cell,  and  lay  down,  without  a  pillow 


268  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

or  mattress,  on  the  floor,  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
his  first  night  in  prison. 

In  the  morning, — having  ascertained  from  the 
keeper  Avho  gave  him  his  bread  and  coffee,  through 
the  little  vricket  in  the  iron  door,  that  he  was  permit- 
ted the  use  of  pen  and  paper, — he  wrote  an  open  note 
to  Dr.  Felton,  urging  him  to  come  immediately  to  see 
him,  as  he  had  a  confidential  communication  to  make, 
of  the  utmost  moment  to  those  in  whom  the  doctor 
took  a  deep  interest. 

The  afternoon  brought  the  worthy  doctor  to  the 
prison ;  and  after  a  long  interview  with  the  prisoner, 
he  was  observed  to  go  away,  with  a  well  pleased  ex- 
pression on  his  benevolent  countenance. 

Getting  into  an  antiquated  chaise,  which  for  so  many 
years  had  borne  him  about  the  city,  in  his  errands  of 
mercy  to  the  suffering  and  the  afflicted,  he  drove  to 
the  office  of  Mr.  Spearbill,  the  great  lawyer,  in  a 
little  street,  near  the  State  House. 

He  found  the  great  lawyer,  having  got  through  with 
his  morning  engagements  in  the  courts,  dozing  in  a 
huge  leathern  arm  chair,  beside  a  large  table  covered 
with  black  cloth,  and  heaped  with  papers, — across 
which,  by  way  of  paper  weights,  (a  purely  American 
invention,)  lay  a  pair  of  not  over-clean  boots,  with  the 
soles  presented,  like  the  muzzles  of  a  brace  of  twenty- 
four  pounders,  towards  the  door. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Spearbill,"  said  the  doctor, 
"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  your  meditations;  but  I  have 
a  little  business  which  will  admit  of  no  delay." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  269 

"Bless  my  soul!"  said  the  great  lawyer,  taking 
down  his  legs,  and  rubbing  his  eyes  with  his  pocket 
handkerchief,  which  he  hastily  withdrew  from  his  bald 
head,  where  he  had  disposed  it,  as  ladies  do  theirs  in 
a  sudden  rain,  to  protect  it  from  the  flies,  or  a  draft 
of  air  from  the  window  behind  his  chair.  "Why,  I 
believe — nay,  I  think  we  may  say  with  certainty — 
that  it  is  our  old  friend  Dr.  Felton !  Delighted  to 
see  you,  doctor !  Pray  be  seated !  You  have  of 
course  heard  the  news,  doctor,  of  oui'  friend,  Mr.  Hen- 
derson? A  terrible  blow,  doctor — quite  a  terrible 
blow,  in-deed !  Ah,  we  don't  know  whom  to  trust  in 
this  wicked  world,  doctor !  Terrible  blow ! — a  ter-ri- 
ble  blow, — in-deed !  " 

"Yes,  it  is,  as  you  say,  a  terrible  blow,"  replied 
the  doctor,  sitting  down  and  drawing  a  paper  from 
his  pocket.  "I  have  just  been  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Henderson,  where  I  waited  upon  him  at  his  urgent 
request.  He  has  thought  proper  to  confide  the  con- 
summation of  certain  measures,  to  me,  in  relation  to 
the  property  of  the  late  Mr.  Wilmar,  our  mutual  and 
much  esteemed  friend.  Here  is  Mr.  Henderson's  au- 
thority, which  he  has  just  given  me,  for  receiving 
certain  papers  relating  to  the  affair,  now  in  your 
hands." 

Mr.  Spearbill  took  the  paper,  and  read  it  very  care- 
fully, several  times.  Then,  holding  it  in  his  hand, 
and  looking  inquiringly  at  his  boots,  as  if  interroga- 
ting them  as  to  how  they  had  got  down  from  the 
23* 


270  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

table,  where  he  recollected  to  have  placed  them  but  a 
short  time  before,  he  muttered, 

"Yes,  our  mutual  and  much-loved  friend! — very 
mutual  indeed — very  much  loved — very !  You  are 
quite  right,  doctor — quite  right,  in-deed!" 

"  But  the  papers,  Mr.  Spearbill !  I  am  in  a  great 
hurry,  as  I  have  already  neglected  several  patients, 
Tvho  will  be  expecting  me,  and  must  hasten  on  upon 
my  rounds." 

"Yes,  certainly — much  loved  friend — very  much 
loved  friend,  in-deed!  Excellent  man,  doctor — an 
excellent  man  !  I  had  supposed,  from  your  intimacy 
with  the  family,  that  you  were  to  have  been  one  of 
the  original  administrators." 

"Oh!  "  replied  the  Doctor,  laughing;  "my  minis- 
trations are  all  for  the  living — I  can  do  nothing  for 
the  dead.  "When  they  come  to  that  stage  of  the  pro- 
ceedings, as  you  would  say,  I  turn  them  over  to  the 
sextons — or  the  lawyers." 

"Ha!  very  good!  Upon  my  soul,  very  good,  doc- 
tor— ve-ry!  Read  Moliere,  I  see,  But  then  you 
know,  he  was  down  upon  the  doctors,  too,  a  little — 
yes,  a  little — down  upon  the — doc-tors !  Ah  ha  ! 
Very  good — ve-ry !  " 

"Well,  Mr.  Spearbill,"  said  the  doctor,  growing 
impatient ;  "  I'll  trouble  you  for  those  papers  directly, 
if  you  please — I  really  must  go." 

"Why,  you  see,  papers,  my  dear  doctor,  are — are, 
in  fact,  papers !  I  must  take  a  little  time  to  make  up 
an  opinion  on  this  matter — an  opinion — yes.     Call 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  271 

in  a  day  or  two,  and  we  will  see  what  had  better  be 
done." 

"Sir!"  said  Dr.  Felton,  rising,  and  colouring  with 
some-thing  like  anger;  "I  beg  you  to  review  that 
speech,  and  reconsider  your  determination.  I  did 
not  come  here,  either  expecting  or  being  willing  to  be 
trifled  with.  It  is  a  very  simple  case,  I  believe :  you 
have  some  papers  in  your  possession,  belonging  ab- 
solutely to  Mr.  Henderson,  who  entrusted  them  to 
you.  He  now  wishes  them  transferred  to  me — tb  jT« 
is  his  authority  in  full  for  your  doing  so.  Ther  >  ifl 
here  neither  necessity  nor  room  for  an  opinion." 

"Yes,  my  dear  doctor;  but  you  see" 

"I  see,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  interrupting  him  nth 
animation ;  "  that  I  have  been  mistaken  in  my  esti- 
mate of  a  character  which  I  thought  I  under*itood. 
I  have  no  time  to  waste  words.  If  you  will  give  me 
the  papers  I  have  shown  you  the  authority  for  deli- 
vering up,  very  well.  If  not,  I  shall  immediately 
follow  the  directions  laid  down  in  this  other  paper, 
also  drawn  up  by  Mr.  Henderson  with  his  own  hand, 
for  my  guidance  under  the  emergency  in  which  I  now 
find  myself. — This  is,  to  commence  a  prosecution  im- 
mediately, in  the  name  of  Arthur  Wilmar  and  his 
mother  and  sisters,  for  the  recovery  of  the  documents 
pertaining  to  the  administration  of  Mr.  Wilmar's 
estate,  which  are  withheld  by  you.  I  have  heard  a 
list  of  the  witnesses  who  will  be  summoned  to  appear 

in  this  case — among  whom  is  the  cashier  of  the 

Bank,  which  has  several  checks  drawn  by  Mr.  Hen- 


272  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

derson  to  your  order,  and  endorsed  by  you — especially 
one  for  a  thousand  dollars,  dated  on  the  very  day 
in  which  you  received  these  papers.  I  have,  also, 
here  the  deposition  of  Mr.  Henderson  himself,  duly 
certified  by  a  magistrate  s^it  for  from  the  prison  for 
that  pui'pose  during  my  interview,  containing  a  full 
account  of  the  transactions  which  led  to  the  loss  of 
their  property  by  the  Wilmars — with  the  names  of 
all  the  parties  concerned  in  it.  I  am  no  lawyer,  Mr. 
Spearbill,  but  I  am  a  man  of  common  sense :  and  I 
know  that,  upon  this  affidavit,  and  my  own,  a  criminal 
magistrate  will  instantly  grant  a  warrant  against  the 
parties  in  it,  who  are  still  at  large,  for  a  conspiracy  to 
defraud  the  Wilmars  out  of  their  estate." 

"Doctor  Felton  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Spearbill,  starting 
up,  his  face  livid  with  indignation — or  fear — "do  you 
know  that  you  are  making  libellous  insinuations — that 
your  words  are  actionable?" 

"Well,  sir — if  they  are,  I  am  willing  to  stand  to 
them;  and,  as  I  see  you  have  no  witnesses  here,  I 
shall  proceed  to  the  mayor's  office,  and  utter  them  in 
public — and  swear  to  them,  too!     Good  day,  sir!" 

"  Stop,  stop,  doctor !  Don't  be  so  hot !  Why,  you 
quite  astonish  me!  Let  me  see;  I  don't  want  the 
papers — they  are  of  no  interest  to  me,  except  that 
they  were  confided  to  my  charge  in  a  professional 
way,  by  a  client, — and  we  lawyers,  you  know  my 
dear  doctor,  have  to  be  very  particular  about  such 
things ! " 

"  Yes — I  know  they  were  given  to  you,  and  that, 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  273 

after  a  careful  and  deliberate  examination,  you  gave 
your  professional  opinion  that  they  were  all  right,  and 
that  the  Wilmars  were  regularly  ruined,  according  to 
law.  But  there  are  now  reasons  for  believing  that 
even  your  legal  acumen  was,  for  once,  mistaken — Jove 
sometimes  nods,  you  know!  The  question  now  is, 
am  I  to  have  the  papers?     Yes,  or  no?  " 

Mr.  Spearbill  hesitated — he  was  at  his  wit's  end : 
he  had  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  found  himself  over- 
matched, and  by  an  adversary  who  did  not  seem  dis- 
posed to  forego  any  advantage. 

^'Doctor  Felton,"  said  he,  at  last;  "let  us  under- 
stand one  another.  I  do  not  pretend  to  say  that 
the  Wilmars  have  not  suffered  some  wrong;  and  I 
will  say,  farther,  that  no  one  can  so  quickly  and 
thoroughly  right  them,  as  myself.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  you  drive  me  to  my  defences,  I  can  at  least,  greatly 
retard  and  embarrass,  if  not  defeat,  you.  If  you  will 
show  me  the  deposition  of  Mr.  Henderson,  of  which 
you  have  spoken,  and  give  me  your  word  of  honour 
that  the  matter  shall  be  pushed  no  farther  than  the 
restoration  to  the  Wilmars  of  their  father's  fortune, 
I  will  serve  both  you  and  them.  I  have  no  possible 
pecuniary  interest  in  withholding  it  from  them.  What- 
ever I  may  have  received  from  Mr.  Henderson,  in  the 
shape  of  fees  in  this  affair,  was  from  his  own  funds, 
and  not  from  the  property  of  the  Wilmars." 

"  I  agree,  on  one  condition — that  you  give  me  the 
immediate  custody  of  the  papers, — and  that  you  also 


274  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

tell  me  how  soon  the  transfer  to  the  Wilmars,  of  their 
rightful  property,  can  be  effected." 

"There  are  the  papers,  doctor;"  said  the  la-wyer, 
taking  a  package  of  documents,  labelled  "Estate  of 
Wilmar,"  from  the  desk,  and  handing  them  across 
the  table. 

"And  when  can  the  final  arrangements  be  made?  " 

"  To-morrow.  It  only  requires  Mr.  Henderson's  sig- 
nature to  certain  drafts  and  certificates  of  transfer." 

"And  what  is  the  amount  of  the  fortune?  " 

"  Something  over  three  quarters  of  a  million,  with 
the  interest  added,"  said  Spearbill,  with  a  shrug.  "A 
nice  sum.  Doctor  Felton,"  he  continued,  relapsing 
into  his  deliberative  tone  and  manner — "a  nice  sum 
— ve-ry !  "  " 

"Good  day,  sir!  I  shall  be  with  you  early  to- 
morrow. Have  the  kindness  to  make  every  thing 
ready,  so  that  we  may  despatch  the  business  at  once. 
Good  day!"  and  the  worthy  doctor,  flushed  with  the 
unusual  excitement  into  which  he  had  been  drawn,  in 
defence  of  his  friends'  rights,  got  into  his  chaise,  and 
trotted  off,  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  patient,  Helen,  who 
was  still  confined  to  her  room. 

The  next  day,  the  business  was  transacted  exactly 
as  had  been  agreed  upon.  Doctor  Felton  and  Mr. 
Spearbill  visited  Mr.  Henderson  in  prison,  who  signed 
the  necessary  papers  with  alacrity. 

The  affair  was  a  very  simple  one.  The  funds  of 
"Wilmar  had  been  deposited  in  bank  by  the  executor, 
in  his  own  name — an  exact  account  having  been  kept 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  275 

of  them,  in  the  papers  which  were  at  first  given  to 
Spearbill,  and  which  we  have  just  seen  pass  into  the 
hands  of  the  doctor.  Henderson  had  drawn  out 
every  dollar  of  the  money,  before  the  bank  failed,  as 
he  knew  its  position  better  than  did  the  officers  them- 
selves. The  great  reputation  and  high  standing  of 
Spearbill,  had  made  his  declaration,  as  the  trusted  at- 
torney of  Mr.  "Wilmar  during  his  life,  a  final  settle- 
ment of  the  question,  in  the  eyes  of  Dr.  Felton  and 
the  Wilmars;  and  no  farther  means  were  resorted  to, 
to  test  the  accuracy  of  Henderson's  report,  and  the 
reality  of  their  loss.  It  was  now  only  necessary  for 
Henderson  to  make  over,  from  his  own  funds,  the  pro- 
per amount  of  the  Wilmars'  fortune.  This  was  now 
accomplished,  and  the  doctor  assuring  Henderson  that 
every  thing  in  respect  to  his  case  remained  exactly  as 
he  had  related  it  to  him  yesterday,  and  that  he  need 
give  himself  no  uneasiness,  took  his  departure — 
leaving  Spearbill,  at  Henderson's  request,  to  discuss 
and  arrange  for  the  approaching  trial — habeas  cor2?u8 
having  been  refused,  and  an  arraignment  and  trial  of 
both  Henderson  and  Ingraham  on  the  same  indict- 
ment having  been  determined  on. 


276  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 


THE   TRIAL. 


We  shall  not  attempt  to  paint  the  grief  of  Madame 
de  Saintlieu,  at  the  discovery — alas,  too  late ! — that 
the  poor  Rosalie,  who  had  found  her  death  in  a  house 
of  infamy,  in  an  obscure  alley,  was  the  last  of  her  own 
blood — the  daughter  of  her  sister,  whose  fate  had 
brought  her  mother  to  the  grave,  and  whose  image,  as 
she  recalled  it  from  the  dim  but  imperishable  memories 
of  childhood,  had  seemed  to  her  that  of  some  angel, 
who  had  watched  over  her  in  infancy,  and  whom  she 
was  to  meet  with  her  mother  in  heaven.  Such  griefs, 
in  which  a  powerful  and  noble  nature  is  called  upon  to 
struggle,  singly  and  alone,  over  the  errors,  the  mis- 
fortunes, and  the  calamities,  of  a  whole  race,  of  which 
it  knows  itself  the  last  representative,  are  too  sacred, 
too  awful,  to  be  unveiled. — They  go  deep  below  the 
common  level  of  human  suffering — like  those  vast  waves 
of  the  Pacific,  with  which  the  ocean  sobs,  after  some 
world-wandering  hurricane  that  sweeps  across  her  bo- 
som, and  seem,  as  they  rise  and  fall,  to  take  on  the 
eternal  undulations  of  the  mountains  and  valleys  that 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  277 

lie  unfathomable  deptlis  below,  upheaved  and  rent 
asunder  by  earth's  central  fires. 

In  this  season  of  overwhelming  wo,  when  life  and 
all  its  hopes  seemed  but  a  mockery,  only  tempting  the 
soul  to  escape  to  some  existence  that  must  be  less  ter- 
rible than  this,  and  which  paralyzed  every  spring  and 
energy  of  her  strong  and  courageous  nature ;  Felice 
had  but  one  ray  of  comfort — the  deep  and  earnest 
sympathy  of  her  new  friend,  the  young  artist,  Arthur 
Wilmar.  Even  her  children  had  become  objects  that 
only  recalled  or  increased  her  sorrow.  She  looked  at 
them  with  a  shudder,  as  she  thought  of  the  fate  of  her 
sister's  child,  and  remembered  that,  but  for  her,  they 
too  were  as  lonely  and  as  helpless,  in  a  strange  un- 
pitying  world,  as  the  poor  dead  Rosalie.  But  for  her ! 
And  what  was  her  strength,  to  protect  and  watch  over, 
and  guard  them  from  evil?  She  knew  how  trivial, 
bow  false,  how  hollow,  were  the  smiles,  and  how  brief 
and  fruitless  might  be  the  popularity  of  the  present 
moment.  A  freak,  a  caprice,  a  forgetfulness,  of  the 
capricious  and  forgetful  world,  might  suddenly  deprive 
her  of  strength,  and  leave  them  all  to  want  and  beg- 
gary. For  a  time,  the  agony  of  the  fearful  mother 
overcame  even  her  affection.  She  almost  deemed  the 
fate  of  Rosalie  a  happy  and  an  enviable  one,  to  the 
innocent,  the  tender,  and  the  unprotected;  and  she 
formed  wild  and  terrible  resolutions — that,  if  it  should 
ever  be  thus  with  them — if  the  new  hopes  that  had 
smiled  upon  her  should  fade,  and  the  black  storm  of 
want  and  despair  should  close  around  them — she  would 
24 


Zlii  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

herself  shed  their  innocent  blood,  ere  the  pure  hearts 
that  fountained  it,  had  become  fouled  and  poisonous — 
and  so  follow  them  to  heaven ! 

In  these  dark  days,  following  more  dismal  nights, 
Arthur  became  a  daily  and  constant  blessing.  He 
came  every  morning,  at  a  certain  hour,  for  whose  return 
her  heart  had  learned  to  wait  with  an  uncontrollable 
impatience,  as  an  infant  in  the  wierd  twilight  of  its 
chamber  waits  for  the  light  that  is  to  come  and  drive 
away  the  shadowy  phantoms  that  oppress  it.  Some- 
times he  would  sit  for  hours,  holding  her  hand  in  his, 
and  gazing  at  her  in  silence — until  the  electric  quality 
of  his  loving  and  tender  sympathy  had  stolen  into  her 
soul,  and  restored  some  portion  of  its  broken  calm. 
Nothing  he  thought  of  himself,  in  all  this — only  of  her. 
And  yet,  in  this  terrible  season,  while  the  thought  of 
his  own  love  was  buried  far  beyond  his  own  conscious- 
ness, and  he  only  lived  to  sooth  and  calm  her  suffer- 
ings, her  heart  gradually  rose  to  meet  him,  and  began 
to  transmute  the  convulsive  beatings  of  an  unutterable 
sorrow  into  the  trembling  palpitations  of  a  new-born 
love.  Yes — that  was  the  period  of  his  most  successful 
wooing.  The  gratitude,  the  affection,  inspired  by  so 
much  self-denying  devotion,  such  earnest  sympathy, 
softly  changed  to  love.  And  when  at  last  the  cloud 
fell  from  her  spirit,  and  left  the  memory  of  her  sister, 
and  her  sister's  child,  smiling  like  stars  in  the  serene 
sky,  the  symbols  of  both  memory  and  hope — she  looked 
within  her  OAvn  bosom,   and   saw  that   she  had   no 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  279 

longer  the  poTver  to  choose  between  friendship  and 
love. 

Still  no  word  had  passed  between  them  of  love — 
nor  did  either  feel  the  strength  or  courage  to  renew 
the  discussion  of  their  sweet  heart's  secret.  Their  old 
occupations  and  intercourse  were  gradually  resumed, 
as  if  all  had  been  a  dream — only,  there  was  a  tender 
light  in  the  glance  of  Felice,  as  she  watched  her  boy 
artist  giving  way  to  the  inspirations  that  rose  from  his 
teeming  brain,  and  seeking  through  the  infinite  world 
of  the  ideal,  for  the  type  of  that  supreme  excellence, 
whose  living  embodiment  he  felt  was  standing,  warm 
and  palpitating,  beside  him.  Oh,  the  exquisite  delights 
of  this  voluptuous  Platonism — this  dallying  of  the  soul 
with  the  anticipations  of  those  brief  sensations  with 
which  passion  triumphs  even  in  the  moment  of  its 
death  over  the  serene  immortality  of  its  rival !  Who, 
that  has  felt  them,  would  exchange  them,  without  a 
shudder  of  terror  at  what  might  come,  even  for  love 
itself! 

Nor  shall  we  pursue  the  contemplation  of  the  anti- 
thesis of  this  picture — the  vulgar,  dissolute,  heartless 
seducer,  who  writhes  and  howls  in  impotent  fury  in 
his  cell,  or  cowers  during  the  long  night,  under  his 
miserable  blanket,  striving  to  hide  his  head  from  the 
goblin  shadows  that  haunt  and  pursue  him.  A  coward 
through  all  his  nature,  there  still  had  beat  one  enno- 
bling pulse  in  his  depraved  and  corrupted  heart — that 
was  love  for  Rosalie.  Yes,  as  far  as  he  was  capable  of 
loving  any  but  himself,  he  had  sincerely  loved  her.    That 


•280  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

chaste  yet  voluptuous  beauty,  which  had  so  enthralled 
his  senses — that  angelic  trust,  which  beheld  in  him,  her 
adored  one,  all  that  was  noble  and  heroic,  all  that  he 
knew  he  so  hopelessly  lacked — had  twined  their  green 
bonds  closely  about  his  heart.  Under  other  circum- 
stances, this  love  perhaps  might  have  purified  and  saved 
him.  But  he  had  trampled  on  it — the  sacred  light 
that  alone  guarded  that  demon-haunted  nature,  had 
been  stricken  to  the  ground  by  his  own  hand,  and  had 
set  to  him  forever,  in  blood  and  death. 

Slowly  the  paroxysms  of  his  fury,  his  terror,  his  re- 
morse, subsided  into  a  sullen  insensibility.  If  he  had 
thought  at  all  upon  the  particulars  of  his  present  po- 
sition, he  had  failed  to  arrive  at  any  conclusion,  or  to 
adopt  any  course  of  action.  Arrested  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  his  habitual  night  debauches,  into  which,  to 
drown  his  fearful  recollections,  he  had  plunged  with 
unwonted  recklessness  and  depth,  he  was  taken  to 
prison  in  a  state  of  permanent  intoxication — a  chronic 
drunkenness,  whose  consequences,  when  suddenly 
checked,  are  so  frightful  to  the  physical  and  moral 
nature,  that  none  but  physicians,  or  the  keepers  of 
prisons  or  hospitals,  can  form  any  idea  of  them.  Mania 
ct  potu  has  been  often  described ;  but  never  has  there 
been,  and  never  can  there  be,  any  adequate  picture  of 
its  horrors,  drawn  by  pen  or  pencil. 

For  several  days  after  his  imprisonment,  Ingraham 
was  a  victim  to  this  distemper,  wliich  raged  with  un- 
wonted violence.  The  grotesque  visions  and  phantoms 
which,  in  this  disease,  the  outraged  stomach  and  nerves 


OUR  FIRST  FAjMILIES.  281 

send  to  the  brain,  in  all  tlie  vivid  distinctness  of  re- 
ality, all  assumed  to  him,  some  monstrous  modification 
of  the  form  and  aspect  of  the  dead  and  bleeding  Rosa- 
lie. Sometimes  she  was  a  dragon,  with  burning  wings 
and  fiery  breath,  that  exhaled  an  atmosphere  of  blood, 
who  rushed  furiously  towards  him,  to  clasp  him  in  her 
bat-like  arms — but  always  the  pale  dead  face  looked 
at  him  with  its  stony  eyes,  as  it  had  done,  on  that 
night,  in  the  fatal  chamber.  At  other  times,  she 
would  steal  upon  him  in  the  form  of  a  huge  serpent, 
twining  and  coiling  tightly  about  him,  while  the  dead 
pale  face  would  try,  in  horrid  playfulness,  to  kiss  him. 

When  all  this  passed  away,  Edward  Ingraham  was 
a  wreck.  His  face  was  ghastly — his  clothes  were  un- 
changed, his  beard  unshaven — and  as  he  cowered  in 
his  cell,  glaring  out  with  his  wild  and  terror-brightened 
eyes,  he  looked  like  his  own  evil  genius,  who  had  de- 
stroyed its  charge,  and  taken  his  place  on  earth. 

Finally,  a  day  or  two  before  the  trial,  he  recovered 
his  senses  sufiiciently  to  recollect  something  of  the 
past,  with  distinctness,  and  to  realize  his  own  position. 
He  was  not  at  all  aware  of  the  arrest  of  Henderson ; 
but  he  knew,  from  the  disclosures  made  to  him  by  the 
policeman  Wilkins,  during  their  black  mail  negotia- 
tions, that  he  had  been  traced  from  the  house,  and 
that  the  letter  and  picture,  although  not  perhaps  con- 
clusive, were  still  strong  evidence  against  him.  Mrs. 
Anthony,  too,  (he  did  not  know  that  she  had  escaped,) 
would  testify  that  he  was  an  habitual  visiter  at  the 
house — that  none  ever  saw  Rosalie  but  himself — and 
24* 


282  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

tliat  at  the  very  time  of  the  catastrophe,  he  must  have 
been  in  her  room.  No  mortal,  as  he  believed,  could 
know  that  he  did  not  strike  the  blow,  save  her  whom 
it  had  slain.  It  appeared  to  him,  therefore,  that  his 
fate  was  inevitable.  His  career  was  over — he  had  but 
a  few  days  more  on  earth.  What  a  reflection,  for  a 
criminal  and  a  coward ! 

The  days  hurried  on,  and  at  length,  the  hour  of  the 
trial  approached.  Since  sunrise,  the  street  in  front 
of  the  State  House  had  been  densely  thronged  with 
the  population;  as  if  the  venerable  pile,  which  has 
thundered  forth  the  startling  intelligence  of  so  many 
conflao^rations,  were  itself  in  flames.  Nothino;  had 
ever  occurred,  which  had  so  deeply  agitated  the  com- 
munity, as  this  double  arrest  for  the  murder  of  a  young 
and  lovely  girl,  of  two  men  unquestionably  belonging 
to  the  "first  families."  Wonder,  gossip,  curiosity, 
scandal,  sui-mise,  even  indignation,  exhausted  them- 
selves in  discussing,  inquiring,  and  reading  the  news- 
papers. Business  was  almost  suspended  in  its  ordi- 
nary channels ;  and  the  whole  body  politic  seemed  to 
hang  with  suspended  breaths  upon  the  issue  of  this  as- 
tounding event. 

Of  course,  in  the  fashionable  world,  the  sensation 
had  been  central  and  convulsive.  Society,  like  a  planet 
arrested  in  its  orbit,  stood  still,  faltered,  and  fell  to 
pieces — the  scattered  fragments  flying  from  each  other, 
as  if  in  dismay.  Invitations  already  given,  were  re- 
voked ;  entertainments  decided  upon,  were  indefinitely 
postponed;  marriages  were  broken  ofl";  whole  blocks  of 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  283 

houses  were  shut  up.  The  fashionable  world  had  be- 
come, as  it  were,  extinguished !  Its  carriages  no  more 
rattled  along  Chestnut  street — its  ladj  patronesses  no 
longer  lounged  at  Levy's,  or  dined  at  Parkinson's. — 
All  was  over — all  was  naught. 

When  Arthur  Wilmar  had  first  learned  the  relation- 
ship of  Rosalie  de  Morny,  to  his  friend  Madame  de 
Saintlieu,  he  had  formed  a  determination  to  take  her 
to  Helen,  that  she  might  talk  with  one  who  had  seen 
the  poor  girl,  in  the  last  moment  of  her  existence. — 
The  family  of  the  Wilmars  had  now  all  been  made 
acquainted  with  the  real  history  of  Helen's  adventures, 
on  that  terrible  night — though  Dr.  Felton  had  strictly 
charged  them  not  to  disclose  any  of  the  circumstances, 
until  the  trial.  But  Arthur  was  not  afraid  to  entrust 
the  secret  to  Felice — she  was  to  him  more  than  him- 
self. 

Wilmar  had  rightly  divined.  When  he  related  the 
whole  story  to  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  she  expressed 
the  liveliest  desire  to  see  and  converse  with  Helen ; 
and  learning  that  his  sister  was  not  yet  permitted  to 
leave  her  room,  she  begged  that  Arthur  would  take 
her  home  with  him  at  once.  After  that,  she  went 
often  to  Helen,  and  nursed  and  tended  her  so  affec- 
tionately, that  Kate  and  Emma,  who  had  already 
learned  to  love  her,  used  often  to  leave  them  for  hours 
alone  together.  Felice's  sympathies  were  powerfully 
diverted  from  herself  to  Helen ;  and  while  watching  by 
the  bedside  of  the  heart-broken  and  fading  girl,  she 
felt  her  own  strength  and  self-possession  return.     She 


284  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

had  obtained  her  sister's  picture,  promising  to  restore 
it,  if  needed,  on  the  trial ;  and  in  gazing  upon  it,  and 
in  her  long  interviews  Tvith  Helen — and,  more  than 
all,  from  the  silent  influence  of  Arthur's  unfaltering 
devotion — her  mind  and  heart  now  rapidly  regained 
their  calm  and  healthful  tone,  and  she  began  to  resume 
her  wonted  and  beautiful  influence  upon  the  lives  of 
those  who  surrounded  her. 

On  the  day  of  the  trial,  the  moment  the  doors  were 
opened,  the  court-room  was  instantly  filled  to  suffo- 
cation, by  a  crowd,  the  foremost  of  whom  had  been 
obstinately  besieging  the  doors  and  embracing  the 
walls,  ever  since  daylight.  If  the  critics  will  attend 
the  almost  always  crowded  court-rooms,  and  note  the 
eager  and  absorbing  interest  with  which  the  audience 
watch  the  proceedings  of  every  cause,  from  the  most 
trivial  to  the  most  important,  from  broad  farce,  to  the 
grand  tragedies  of  real  life  and  death,  they  will  dis- 
cover the  real  solution  of  the  much  mooted  question 
of  the  decay  of  the  drama.  Our  fierce  democracy 
must  have  the  real  drama — it  has,  as  yet,  no  hunger 
for  the  higher  realities  of  art. 

The  judges  took  their  seats,  and  the  prisoners — who 
now  met  for  the  first  time  since  their  arrest — were 
arraigned.  A  jury  was  empanelled  without  difficulty 
— for,  so  innumerable  and  contradictory  had  been  the 
reports  of  the  newspapers,  that  few  had  been  able  to 
form  any  definite  opinion  as  to  the  guilt  or  innocence 
of  the  prisoners.  The  indictment  was  read  amidst 
the  profoundest  silence — their  separate  pleas  of  not 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  285 

guilty  were  duly  recorded — and  then  tlie  attorney  for 
the  commonwealth  rose,  and  in  a  few  lucid,  calm  and 
perspicuous  sentences,  explained  to  the  jury  the  nature 
of  the  charge,  the  evidence  he  expected  to  produce, 
and  the  considerations  that  must  govern  them  as  to 
the  guilt  or  innocence,  or  the  degree  of  guilt,  of  the 
prisoners,  either  or  both  of  them.  With  good  taste, 
he  entirely  abstained  from  any  declamation,  calcu- 
lated to  distort  or  divert  the  minds  of  the  jury  from 
the  earnest  consideration  of  the  bare  facts  in  the 
case. 

A  brief  pause  now  ensued ;  and  the  audience  occu- 
pied themselves,  while  the  preparations  for  com- 
mencing the  examination  of  witnesses  were  going  on, 
in  an  eager  scrutiny  of  the  prisoners. 

Mr.  Henderson  appeared  pale  and  stern,  but  confi- 
dent and  resolved.  There  was  even  an  expression  of 
triumph  and  defiance  in  his  eyes,  which  were  fixed 
steadily  upon  the  court,  watching  the  proceedings. 
He  was  alone;  for  in  good  society  it  is  not  in  good 
taste  for  the  wife  or  family  of  a  man  accused  of  crime, 
to  manifest  any  interest  in  his  fate.  The  extent  of 
their  demonstrations  of  affection  are,  to  remain  at 
home,  and  receive  the  condolences  of  friends  upon 
their  "unfortunate  position."  Besides,  no  such  de- 
gree of  affection  or  regard  existed  between  Mr.  Hen- 
derson and  his  family,  as  would  have  rendered  their 
presence  a  support  or  consolation  to  either.  They 
had  heretofore  lived  together  in  a  strict  observance  of 
the  proprieties — nothing  more:    and  as  the  present 


286  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

occasion,    tliose    proprieties   were   duly   maintained. 
"What  more  would  vou  have  ? 

As  for  Ingraham,  although  he  was  now  silent  and 
passive,  his  haggard  face  and  glaring  eyes  showed 
the  intensity  of  his  sufferings  and  his  apprehensions. 
Dr.  Felton  had  made  it  an  imperative  condition  with 
Mr.  Spearbill,  who  appeared  as  the  counsel  for  the 
defence,  in  both  cases,  that  Ingraham  should  not  be 
informed  of  Helen  having  been  a  witness  of  his  final 
interview  with  Rosalie ;  and  the  poor  young  man  had 
been  left  in  all  the  terrors  of  apprehension. — He, 
too,  was  alone ;  for  it  could  by  no  means  be  supposed 
that  the  gay  and  fashionable  Mrs.  Valentine  would 
allow  herself  to  be  seen  in  so  vulgar  a  place  as  a 
court-room ; — and  as  to  her  husband,  Edward's  uncle, 
we  have  already  said  that  he  was  an  invalid,  who 
seldom  or  never  left  his  own  room,  save  now  and  then, 
on  extraordinary  fine  days,  when  he  would  take  a  ride 
of  a  mile  or  two,  into  the  country,  attended  by  a 
faithful  servant,  the  only  creature  in  the  household 
who  seemed  to  be  aware  that  he  still  existed. 

The  first  witness  called  was  Captain  Butler,  who 
related  his  suspicions,  previously  entertained,  of  the 
character  of  the  house  inhabited  by  Mrs.  Anthony, 
and  his  having  seen  one  of  the  prisoners,  Mr.  Hen- 
derson, on  the  night  of  the  murder,  leave  that  house, 
apparently  in  haste  and  confusion,  and  steal  stealthily 
and  quickly  away.  He  then  gave  an  account  of 
having  met  policeman  Wilkins,  of  entering  the  house, 
finding  the  dead  body  of  Rosalie  de  Morny,  and  the 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  281 

pool  of  blood,  and  the  footsteps  in  the  hall-  The  di- 
mensions of  these  footsteps  he  had  accurately  mea- 
sured, and  from  comparison  with  the  feet  of  the  pri- 
soner, Henderson,  the  measurements  had  correspond- 
ed exactly. 

It  was  then  proved,  by  the  head  clerk  and  cashier 
of  Mr.  Henderson,  that  his  employer,  on  the  afternoon 
preceding  the  murder,  had  received  a  telegraphic  des- 
patch, from  a  correspondent  of  the  house  in  Trenton, 
stating  that  Mr.  Henderson's  presence  there  was  ne- 
cessary, to  close  an  important  and  long-pending  af- 
fair, and  that  he  had  announced  to  the  witness  that 
he  should  proceed  to  Trenton  by  the  five  o'clock  train, 
and  probably  return  the  next  day.  The  witness,  in 
carrying  on  the  correspondence  of  the  house,  since 
Mr.  Henderson's  arrest,  had  discovered  that  no  such 
despatch  had  been  sent  by  their  Trenton  correspond- 
ent, and  that  Mr.  Henderson  had  not  been  there. 

The  next  witness  was  a  night  ferryman  on  the 
Walnut  street  ferry-boat,  who  swore  distinctly  that 
Mr.  Henderson  had  crossed  over  from  Philadelphia  to 
Camden,  in  the  first  boat,  at  about  daylight,  on  the 
night  in  question. 

The  prosecution  now  called  to  the  stand  the  police- 
man Wilkins.  As  he  mounted  into  the  little  box  ap- 
propriated to  the  witnesses,  he  cast  an  indescribable 
glance  at  Ingraham,  half  disappointment,  half  tri- 
umph, of  which,  however,  the  prisoner  did  not  seem 
to  take  any  notice.  He  testified  to  having  seen  the 
accused,  Ingraham,  coming  from  the  house  of  Mrs. 


288  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Anthony,  on  tlie  morning  of  the  murder,  a  little  be- 
fore four  o'clock,  and  then  run  swiftly  up  the  street, 
frequently  looking  behind  him.  The  witness  then  re- 
lated that,  upon  meeting  his  superior,  Captain  Butler, 
he  had  communicated  his  suspicions,  and  that  both 
then  proceeded  to  the  house,  and  discovered  the  body 
of  Rosalie ;  and  that,  lying  on  the  table  near  where 
the  body  was  discovered,  he  had  found  a  miniature 
and  an  open  letter,  both  of  which  were  shown  him 
and  identified.  He  also  stated  that  he  had  subse- 
quently encountered  Ingraham  in  an  oyster-cellar, 
and  upon  alluding  to  the  murder,  the  prisoner  had  at 
first  asked  him  what  he  meant.  But  that,  upon  men- 
tioning the  picture  and  the  letter  he  had  found,  the 
prisoner,  in  great  agitation,  exclaimed,  "Is  it  possible ! 
I  forgot  that  I  left  the  letter!" — that  he  had  then 
proposed  to  buy  the  pictures  and  the  letter,  for  which 
he  ofiered  to  pay  five  thousand  dollars ;  but  that  the 
witness  had  refused,  and  had  delivered  them  into  the 
hands  of  the  mayor,  who  had  the  charge  of  collecting 
the  evidence  in  the  case. 

This  completed  the  evidence  for  the  prosecution, 
and  the  attorney  for  the  state  gave  way  to  his  learned 
brother,  Mr.  Spearbill,  who  rose  to  open  for  the  de- 
fen.ce. 

Mr.  Spearbill  rose  with  even  more  than  his  usual 
importance.  He  had,  he  said,  as  in  duty  bound,  lis- 
tened in  respectful  patience  to  his  learned  and  ho- 
nourable brother,  who  had  been  called  to  the  painful 
task — very  painful  task,  under  all  circumstances,  but 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  289 

peculiarly  so,  when  an  advocate  for  the  people  feels 
himself  called  upon  to  strike  down  the  highest  and 
most  worthy  ornaments  of  the  people.  But  he  had, 
notwithstanding,  listened  with  no  small  degree  of  im- 
patience— knowing,  as  he  did  know,  that  he  had  it  in 
his  power,  from  the  first  moment  of  the  arraignment 
of  the  prisoners,  to  put  an  instant  and  summary  stop 
to  the  proceedings.  But  such  was  far  from  his  inten- 
tion. Both  in  the  interests  of  his  clients,  and  in  the 
interests  of  justice,  he  had  determined  to  let  the  trial 
take  its  full  course ;  and  the  jury  could  not  have  failed 
observe,  that  he  had  not  even  cross-examined  the  wit- 
nesses produced  by  his  learned  and  eloquent  friend  on 
behalf  of  the  prosecution.  But  now,  that  his  learned 
friend  had  concluded  his  case,  he  must  proceed  to  per- 
form the  grateful  and  welcome  duty  of  establishing, 
by  the  most  unimpeachable  testimony  of  an  eye  wit- 
ness to  the  death  of  the  unfortunate  young  girl,  Rosa- 
lie do  Morny,  the  entire  and  absolute  innocence  of 
both  the  prisoners  at  the  bar,  of  any  part  or  lot  in 
the  matter. 

At  this  address,  the  audience  opened  their  eyes  and 
ears,  with  renewed  attention,  and  a  murmur  of  asto- 
nishment ran  through  the  assemblage-^while  Edward 
Ingraham,  who  had  remained  during  the  progress  of 
the  trial,  in  an  attitude  of  sullen  and  desperate  reso- 
lution, suddenly  rose  erect  from  his  stooping  posture, 
and  looked  inquiringly  at  his  defender,  while  a  flush 
of  hope  glowed  in  his  face  and  gleamed  in  his  eyes. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  the  advocate^s  wards  meant 
25 


290  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

anything  but  the  usual  flourish  with  which  the  defence 
of  a  hopeless  cause  is  commenced  ? 

Yes — here  is  Helen  Wilmar,  pale  and  feeble,  sup- 
ported by  her  brother  on  one  side,  and  Dr.  Felton  on 
the  other,  advancing  from  the  witness  benches,  and 
making  her  way  slowly  and  painfully  to  the  stand. — 
A  thrill  of  sympathy  went  through  the  crowd,  as  they 
beheld  the  young  and  feeble  girl,  whose  wasted  cheek 
and  tottering  step  told  too  plainly  that  she  was  fitter 
for  the  sick  room  than  for  the  rude  and  crowded  court. 
Who  was  she  ? — and  what  could  she  know  of  the  mur- 
der of  the  young  French  girl  in  Cherry  street  ?  Per- 
haps she  was  the  girl's  companion — and  yet,  she  did 
not  look  at  all  like  "one  of  that  sort"  to  which  the 
charitable  public  had  unhesitatingly  assigned  the  mur- 
dered. 

Helen,  after  leaning  a  moment  on  her  brother, 
stepped  into  the  witness  stand  and  sat  down — the 
court  having  considerately  ordered  an  attendant  to 
place  a  chair  for  her. — She  seemed  to  gain  a  momentary 
strength,  even  from  the  strangeness  of  her  position ; 
and  looking  for  an  instant  at  Ingraham,  she  com- 
menced her  narration.  Clearly,  and  without  faltering 
or  hesitation,  she  related  the  entire  history  of  her  ad- 
ventures on  the  day  and  night  of  the  murder.  So  dis- 
tinct and  lucid  were  her  statements,  that  not  a  doubt 
of  their  entire  truth  rested  on  the  minds  of  court  or 
jury,  or  of  any  person  in  the  crowded  auditory.  When 
she  had  concluded,  the  prosecuting  attorney,  declining 
to  cross-examine  the  witness,  rose,  and  stating  to  the 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  291 

court  that  the  testimony  they  had  just  heard — coming 
from  so  respectable  and  entirely  unimpeachable  a 
source — had  completely  satisfied  him  of  the  innocence 
of  the  prisoners,  of  the  charge  upon  which  they  were 
arraigned — however  guilty  might  have  been  their  con- 
duct in  other  respects — and  he  would  therefore  ask 
the  jury  to  return  a  verdict  of  acquittal,  without  going 
farther  into  the  case,  as  the  shortest  way  of  disposing 
of  the  whole  matter. 

To  this,  the  court  could  see  no  objection :  the  jury 
were  so  instructed  —  and  the  prisoners  were  conse- 
quently discharged — apparently  much  to  the  discon- 
tent of  the  enlightened  and  appreciative  audience,  who 
went  away  grumbling,  much  in  the  same  humour  as 
if  they  had  been  to  a  cock-pit  where  the  fight  had  not 
come  off".  In  a  few  minutes  the  court-room  was  de- 
serted— and  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  a  procession  of 
ragged  newsboys  were  met,  on  the  run  up  Chestnut 
street,  crying  in  every  possible  pitch  of  juvenile  squeak, 

"Ere's  the  extr j  Leg ee — got  the  horrible  murder — 
verdict  of  the  jury — only  one  cent !  " 


292  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


RICHES   AND    DEATH. 


The  excitement  of  the  scenes  and  emotions  through 
which  she  had  lately  passed,  and  the  exhaustion  of 
her  effort  to  appear  at  the  trial,  left  Helen  in  a  state 
of  utter  prostration.  From  the  court-room  she  had 
been  assisted  to  a  carriage,  and  taken  home,  where 
she  was  received  by  her  sisters  with  the  tenderest  care ; 
while  Dr.  Felton,  who  accompanied  her,  with  Arthur, 
seeing  how  weak  and  broken-down  she  appeared,  be- 
came at  length  really  alarmed,  and  determined  not  to 
leave  the  house,  lest  some  sudden  attack  should  occur, 
at  which  his  presence  might  be  necessary.  However, 
after  she  had  been  got  to  bed,  she  lay  for  some  time  in 
a  kind  of  stupor,  from  which  she  awoke,  feeling  better 
and  more  comfortable.  She  thanked  the  doctor  for 
his  kindness ;  and  saying  that  she  thought  a  good 
sleep  would  be  the  best  restorative  of  her  strength  and 
spirits,  she  begged  the  doctor  not  to  longer  neglecl 
his  other  patients,  and  to  leave  her — promising  that  she 
would  be  quite  well  in  the  morning.  Arthur  had  al 
ready  gone  out,  to  give  some  lessons,  which  he  had 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  293 

neglected — feeling  that  he  had  no  right  to  give  up  his 
occupations,  upon  which  they  all  depended,  and  fore- 
seeing that  the  serious  illness  of  Helen  might  impose 
additional  burdens  upon  his  slender  earnings.  Dr. 
Felton,  therefore,  after  giving  some  directions  to  Em- 
ma and  Kate,  took  his  leave,  promising  to  call  in  the 
morning  to  see  after  the  state  of  his  patient. 

The  next  day,  just  as  their  melancholy  breakfast 
was  over,  and  Arthur  was  preparing  to  go  out,  a  letter 
came  for  Helen.  She  had  passed  a  quiet  night,  and 
said  that  she  felt  much  better — though  the  increasing 
pallor  of  her  cheeks,  and  a  convulsive  hectic  cough, 
which  had  clung  to  her  for  several  weeks,  and  now 
seemed  more  severe  than  ever,  filled  her  brother  and 
sisters  with  fearful  apprehensions.  They  all,  however, 
concluded  to  proceed  to  her  chamber,  and  see  whether 
the  letter  was  of  importance — wondering  from  whom 
it  had  come. 

Helen  blushed  and  trembled  violently  as  she  took 
the  letter,  and  saw  the  superscription.  She  called  Ar- 
thur, and  holding  it  out  to  him,  with  the  seal  yet  un- 
broken, said, 

"Oh,  dear  brother,  it  is  from  Edward!  Read  it, 
and  make  what  answer  to  it  may  be  necessary.  If  it 
contains  any  thing  to  wound  me,  do  not  let  me  hear 
its  contents.  I  am  too  weak  to  endui'e  any  further 
excitement." 

Arthur  opened  the  letter,  and  after  running  his  eyes 
over  it,  said, 

"  My  dearest  sister,  there  is  nothing  in  it  but  what 
25* 


294  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

you  ought  to  hear.  I  am  sure  it  will  do  you  good.  I 
will  read  it  to  you." 

The  letter  was  as  follows : 

"  To  Miss  Helen  Wilmar : — Your  conduct  yesterday 
has  convinced  me  that  you  arc  too  good  to  deny  me 
the  privilege  of  thanking  you  for  saving  my  life.— 
You  are,  indeed,  my  preserver ;  but,  had  it  not  been 
for  my  own  hard-heartedness,  you  might  have  pre- 
served me,  not  only  to  life,  but  to  happiness  and  ho- 
nour. I  feel  how  deeply  I  have  sinned,  and  how  un- 
pardonably  and  wilfully  I  have  wronged  you.  Your 
noble  conduct  has  heaped  coals  of  fire  upon  my  head ; 
but  I  humbly  hope  that  my  future  life  of  humility  and 
penitence  may  show  some  portion  of  my  bitter  regret 
and  repentance  of  the  past.  If  I  dared,  at  this  solemn 
moment,  to  entertain  a  hope,  it  would  be  that,  at  some 
far  distant  day,  when  I  have  tested  the  sincerity  of 
the  change  which  the  recent  dreadful  events  have  pro- 
duced upon  me,  I  might  solicit  the  renewal  of  an  ac- 
«[uaintance  which  has  been  the  only  bright  spot  in  my 
perverted  and  unworthy  existence.  Oh,  Helen! — 
Never  did  I  feel,  until  now,  how  superior  is  your  na- 
ture to  mine,  how  much  I  did  and  still  do  love  you, 
and  what  a  priceless  treasure  I,  in  my  reckless 
thoughtlessness,  suffered  to  be  snatched  from  me !  I 
am  not  mean  nor  mercenary — I  never  was ;  and  it  was 
the  influence  of  others,  against  my  own  inclination, 
that  made  me  lose  you.  If  I  might  dare  to  hope  that 
one  spark  of  your  old  affection  mingled  with  the  pity 
which  made  you  come  forward  to  save  me,  I  would 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  295 

gratefully  devote  my  life  to  rekindle  and  nourish  that 
sacred  flame. 

"  I  am  completely  changed.  All  my  false  and  hol- 
low enjoyments  are  stripped  from  me,  and  I  feel  my- 
self desolate  and  heart-broken.  Could  I  hope  that  I 
might  ever  be  permitted  to  throw  myself  at  your  feet, 
to  beg  you  to  be  mine,  and  to  suffer  me  to  devote  my 
life  to  your  happiness,  I  should  deem  that  all  I  now 
endure,  and  even  the  remorse  for  the  evil  I  have  done 
to  others,  which  now  consumes  me,  was  but  a  needed 
and  salutary  probation,  to  a  calm  and  peaceful  life. 

"Edward  Ingraham." 

"  Too  late !  too  late !  "  murmured  Helen,  as  Arthur 
finished,  sinking  back  on  her  pillow,  whence  she  had 
half  risen  while  he  was  reading,  and  covering  her  face 
with  her  thin  and  wasted  hands.    "  Poor,  poor  Rosalie !" 

At  this  moment,  the  well-known  ring  of  Dr.  Felton 
was  heard,  and  directly  after,  his  footsteps  ascending 
the  stairs.  He  greeted  the  family  with  his  usual 
almost  fatherly  kindness,  and  there  seemed  to  be  an 
unusual  expression  of  affection  in  the  tones  of  his  voice. 
He  then  proceeded  to  make  himself  acquainted  with 
the  state  of  his  patient,  and  turned  anxiously  to  her 
sisters  for  an  explanation  of  what  had  happened. — 
They  pointed  in  silence  to  the  letter  of  Ingraham, 
which  Arthur  still  held  in  his  hand. 

"Our  best  friend,"  exclaimed  Arthur ;  "we  have  no 
right  to  keep  any  thing  from  you,  who  have  been  our 
only  counsellor  and  adviser,  since  the  death  of  our  fa- 
ther, and  have  supplied  to  us  his  place.     Read  this 


29G  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

letter,  wliicli  came  this  morning,  and  Avliich  I  had  just 
been  reading,  when  you  arrived.  I  had  thought  it 
would  have  made  my  sister  happy  ;  but  you  see  the 
effect  it  has  produced  on  her.  If  I  had  suspected  this 
result,  I  would  not  have  read  it.  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
How  is  she,  dear  doctor?" 

"  Fear  nothing,  Arthur,"  said  the  doctor,  cheerfully ; 
after  he  had  read  the  letter;  "This  letter,  by  showing 
your  sister  that  the  man  who  has  been  the  cause  of 
her  suffering,  is  not  all  bad,  cannot,  at  least,  do  her 
any  permanent  harm.  Nay,  if  there  is  yet  time,  it 
may  be  the  means  of  restoring  her  to  health  and  hap- 
piness. At  all  events  it  does  honour  to  Edward  In- 
graham,  and  shows  me  that  he  is,  after  all,  a  man  well 
worth  saving.  Cheer  up,  my  daughter,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  Helen ;  "  take  a  long  breath,  and  a  new  and 
firm  grasp  on  life — it  may  yet  have  many  bright  years 
in  store  for  you!  I  really  do  not  think,"  said  he. 
after  a  pause,  as  if  communing  with  himself,  "  that  it 
has  gone  so  very  far !  Surely,  with  the  hope  of  a 
restoration  to  love  and  happiness,  she  can  still  be 
saved !  Oh,  these  lungs !  these  lungs  !  The  first  to 
attract  to  themselves,  by  sympathy,  the  ailments 
caused  by  the  heart,  they  are  the  last  to  feel  the  heal- 
ing influences  that  may  have  passed  into  the  mind ! 
These  lungs  are  terrible  things !  " 

Aye,  good  doctor !  and  I  have  sometimes  been  tempt- 
ed to  think,  as  I  have  seen  the  pale  phantoms  of  con- 
sumption pass  in  never-ending  procession  to  the  ever- 
lasting shades,  that  the  old  dreamers  of  the  past  were 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  297 

riglit — that  the  soul,  or  principle  of  life,  does  indeed  re- 
side in  the  lungs  and  vital  viscera,  and  not  in  the  brain, 
as  modern  savantism  has  so  mathematically  and  geo- 
graphically mapped  and  diagrammed  it  out.  The 
"breath"  of  life,  says  the  Holy  writ — and  where,  in 
God's  new-created  and  beautiful  creature,  should  have 
been  the  seat  of  the  breath  of  life,  but  in  those  organs 
which,  palpitating  to  and  fro,  drive  the  exquisite  ma- 
chine along?  Every  physician  knows  that  a  great 
majority  of  those  deaths  which,  in  his  impotency  to 
minister  to  a  mind  diseased,  he  classes  as  "  consump- 
tion," are  the  result  of  some  secret  sorrow  of  the  mind 
or  the  affections,  acting  upon  a  feeble  and  unresisting 
nature ,  and  how  many  others,  of  whose  secret  sorrow 
neither  friend  nor  physician  ever  knows,  die  from  the 
same  cause?  Yes,  yes,  good  doctor — you  are  riglit! 
These  lungs  are  terrible  things ! 

"And  now,  my  children,"  said  the  doctor,  while 
a  smile  of  almost  supernatural  goodness  irradiated 
his  face;  "I  have  a  most  agreeable  and  important 
communication  to  make  to  you.  But  it,  must  be  done 
in  the  presence  of  your  mother.  How  is  she  this 
morning?  " 

"Oh,  doctor,"  said  Emma,  "I  really  thought,  this 
morning,  that  she  seemed  to  be  better.  Her  eyes  had 
more  expression ;  and  as  I  kissed  her  lifeless  hand,  she 
looked  at  me  as  if  she  were  going  to  speak." 

"  The  hour,  then,  has  arrived !  "  murmured  the  doc- 
tor, as  if  to  himself.  "Mysterious  are  thy  ways,  oh 
Providence !  "     Then,  after  a  pause,  he  turned  to  the 


298  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

bed  of  the  sick  girl. — "  Does  my  little  Helen,  here,  not 
feel  strong  enough  to  be  wheeled  in  her  chair  into  her 
mother's  room?  What  I  have  to  say,  will  give  too 
much  happiness  to  all,  for  any  of  you  to  be  absent." 
"  Oh  yes,  doctor,"  replied  Helen,  who  had  mastered 
aer  emotions  and  grown  calm  again.  "I  even  think 
I  might  walk  to  mamma's  room." 

"No,  no — I  shall  not  allow  that.  But  come,  girls, 
get  your  sister  ready,  while  Arthur  and  I  go  down 
stairs.  I  feel  as  if  a  cup  of  coffee  would  not  do  me 
any  harm,  as  I  have  been  riding  around  the  city  ever 
since  daylight,  and  have  had  no  breakfast." 

Kate  volunteered  to  go  with  them  and  make  the 
coffee,  while  Helen  was  left  in  charge  of  Emma. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  returned  up  stairs,  to  the 
chamber  of  Mrs.  Wilmar,  w^here  Emma  had  already 
conveyed  her  sister.  The  pale  and  suffering  daughter, 
sat  by  the  side  of  her  bed,  holding  her  mother's  hand, 
while  the  mother's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  child 
with  an  expression  of  love  and  tenderness,  and  an  in- 
telligence that  had  long  been  absent  from  them. 

The  doctor,  as  he  greeted  her,  watched  the  change 
in  her  appearance  with  a  double  interest- — that  of  the 
friend  and  of  the  physician. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "  I  think  you  feel  your- 
self changed,  to-day,  do  you  not  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  intently,  as  if  she  were  striving 
with  all  her  remaining  energies,  to  speak.  They  even 
thought  her  lips  moved !     But  it  was  doubtless  a  mere 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  299 

momentary  spasm  of  the  muscles :  no  sound  proceeded 
from  that  mouth,  so  long  silent. 

"Mrs.  Wilmar,"  resumed  the  doctor;  "What  I  am 
about  to  tell  you  is  of  the  very  greatest  interest  to  you, 
as  affecting  the  destiny  of  your  children.  Prepare 
yourself,  therefore, — and  you,  also,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  the  group  that  had  gathered  around  him ; 
"you  are  about  to  be  most  pleasantly  surprised.  But 
I  will  not  keep  you  any  longer  in  suspense.  Know, 
then,  my  children,  that  you  are  once  more  rich.  Yes 
— your  father's  fortune,  undiminished  by  a  dollar,  is 
now  your  own  again.  It  was  never  lost,  as  we  were 
told  by  Henderson.  He  fraudulently  appropriated  it, 
and  by  the  connivance  of  Spearbill,  deceived  our  easy 
credulity.  I  blame  myself  severely  for  not  having 
been  more  thorough  in  my  investigations  into  the  mat- 
ter— but  who  could  for  a  moment  suspect  two  men 
standing  so  high  in  the  world's  esteem,  of  such  a  gi- 
gantic piece  of  fraud  and  robbery  ?  For  it  was  no 
less.  And  to  this  dear  girl  here,"  he  continued,  point- 
ing to  Helen;  "you  owe  it  all.  Suspecting,  from 
what  she  said  Henderson  had  told  her,  in  offering  to 
restore  your  fortune  if  she  would  sell  herself  to  him, 
that  there  might  be  a  reason  for  that  particular  offer 
to  have  been  uppermost  in  his  mind,  I  went  to  see  him 
in  prison.  After  a  long  and  severe  struggle,  at  length, 
overcome  by  terror  at  the  fear  of  being  condemned  to 
death — as  he  certainly  would  have  been,  as  well  as  In- 
graham,  but  for  Helen's  testimony — the  old  sinner  con- 
fessed.    I  made  him  give  me  the  necessary  written  au- 


\ 

300  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

thority  to  take  immediate  possession  of  the  property — 
and  there,"  added  the  doctor,  producing  from  his 
pocket,  a  portfolio  of  leather,  evidently  crammed  with 
papers,  "  there  it  is,  all  in  bank  bills  and  certificates  of 
stock,  all  perfectly  straight  and  regular.  Take  it,  Ar- 
thur— you  are  now  the  representative  of  your  father, 
the  trustee  of  your  mother's  fortune,  and  the  ^ardian 
of  your  sisters. — Take  it — and  may  God  bless  you  all, 
and  make  you  happy !  " 

As  he  concluded,  the  old  man's  voice  grew  husky, 
and  the  tears  gushed  plenteously  from  his  eyes. 

The  effect  of  this  communication  was  different  upon 
every  member  of  the  family,  thus  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly restored  to  wealth.  Arthur's  eyes  sparkled, 
his  face  flushed,  and  he  rushed  to  the  window,  fumb- 
ling for  his  handkerchief,  and  scarce  knowing  what  he 
was  about.  Kate  danced  and  capered  about  the  room 
like  mad ;  and  Emma,  kneeling  at  the  doctor's  feet, 
took  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  in  a  transport  of  thank- 
fulness. 

Helen,  whose  eyes  had  been  steadfastly  fixed  upon 
the  doctor,  while  he  was  making  his  explanation,  rose 
to  her  feet,  as  he  finished,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  for 
a  moment,  like  a  lily  leaning  to  the  wind,  threw  her- 
self upon  her  mother's  breast. 

But  the  most  wonderful  effect  of  tliis  announcement 
was  that  produced  upon  the  mother  herself.  As  the 
doctor  ceased  speaking,  she  raised  her  hands  to  heaven, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  that  beloved 
voice  thrilled  the  hearts  of  her  children. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  301 

^'  God !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  fervent  and  clear  tone ; 
"  I  thank  thee !  Now  am  I  ready  to  meet  my  husband  ! 
— My  children  !  Emma !  Kate  !  Arthur !  my  own  dar- 
ling Helen !  Dr.  Felton !  God  bless  you  all ! — Fare- 
well !  "  and  her  hands  fell  again  by  her  side — the  light 
passed  from  her  eyes — a  shadow  crept  coldly  over  her 
wan  and  attenuated  face.  Mother  and  father  were 
reunited  in  heaven. 

26 


302  OLTR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


THE  UNLUCKY  INTERRUPTION 

From  the  house  of  the  dead,  his  heart  heavy  with 
sorrow,  and  a  dark  foreboding  of  coming  evil  over- 
shadowing his  spirit,  Arthm*  Wilmar  took  his  way.  He 
thought  not  of  the  riches  that  had  just  been  restored 
to  him.  Riches  ?  What  were  they  ?  His  mother  was 
dead — his  youngest  and  darling  sister,  the  light  and 
joy  of  the  household,  was  dying — and  she,  the  glorious 
being  who  had  inspired  his  very  dreams  with  love,  and 
whose  image  mingled  with  every  gloomy  and  dishearten- 
ing scene — she,  whose  every  accent  and  look  pierced 
him  with  a  fresh  agony  of  love — had  offered  hhn  only 
the  calm,  frank,  sincerity  of  sisterly  affection,  when 
he  was  panting  with  delirious  passion,  that  longed  to 
strain  her  to  his  burning  bosom,  and  incorporate  her 
life  with  his ! — What  a  mockery,  then,  was  his  new- 
found wealth !  What  cruel  mockery,  too,  of  her,  the 
bright  and  peerless,  thus  to  have  awakened  his  young 
spirit  from  its  peaceful  sleep — to  have  flown  with  him 
to  the  topmost  mountain  height  of  hope,  to  liave  thence 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  303 

shown  him  the  whole  beautiful  and  glorious  world — 
and  then,  smiling,  dashed  him  down  again !  Oh,  that 
the  peaceful,  happy  days  of  ignorance  and  poverty 
were  once  more  his !  The  humble  home — the  loving 
looks  that  greeted  him  when  he  returned  to  it,  and 
went  with  him  when  he  departed — the  midnight  toil 
over  the  precious  dreams  of  art,  that  gradually,  one 
by  one,  were  wrought  to  shape  beneath  his  fingers — 
they  were  gone,  all  gone.  He  had  no  more  heart  to 
work,  or  dream,  or  hope.  She  had  filled  the  horizon 
of  his  soul — her  love  had  become  the  sunlight  of  his 
existence.  That  withdrawn,  all  was  cold,  and  dark, 
and  dreary, — life,  without  her,  no  longer  had  hope  or 
object.     It  all  seemed  a  bitter  mockery. 

All  who  have  truly  loved,  have  felt  thus.  There  are 
many  kinds  of  love:  the  love  that  gradually  ripens 
from  friendship  and  youthful  association — pure  and 
sweet,  but  leaving  an  unsatisfied  craving  in  large  na- 
tures :  the  love  growing  from  gratitude,  and  grafted 
strong  upon  a  sensitive  disposition — loyal  and  firm, 
but  calm  and  unexacting:  the  love  that  springs  from 
pity,  from  the  abstract  pleasure  of  being  beloved,  and 
from  the  duty  that  benevolent  souls  feel  to  make  others 
happy,  forbearing,  kind,  sustaining,  and  tender. 

But  before,  beyond,  above,  all  these — pinnacled  in 
the  height  of  infinity,  yet  rooted  deep  in  the  heart, 
in  the  blood,  in  the  senses — intoxicating  the  soul, 
making  the  brain  delirious,  and  the  body  sick,  with 
passion — is  the  love  of  a  man  of  genius,  first  awakened 
by  the  electric  touch  of  her  who  is  his  destiny.     From 


304  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

that  moment,  there  is  no  other  world,  no  other  life, 
for  him.  Others  may  feel  grief,  and  disappointment, 
and  despair — and  time  will  heal  their  wounds,  will 
sooth  their  sorrows,  and  finally  restore  them  to  them- 
selves and  life.  But  for  him,  this  is  the  crisis  that  de- 
cides his  fate  forever,  both  in  life  and  in  eternity — 
for,  without  her,  life  would  be  a  torture,  heaven  a  hell. 
God,  in  first  giving  him  the  infinite  capacity  of  such  a 
love,  and  then  revealing  to  him  its  object,  has  exhausted 
His  creative  power  of  endowment :  nothing  that  even 
He  could  give  can  compensate  for  the  want  of  that 
object :  lacking  it,  the  human  soul  defies  and  contemns 
heaven  that  has  thus  mocked  him,  and  becomes  a  demon. 
Genius  knows  and  feels  this  by  intuition — and  thus  it 
is,  that  men  of  genius  have  ever  hazarded  all,  every 
thing,  earth,  mankind,  and  heaven,  rather  than  sacri- 
fice this  love,  or  lose  their  hold  upon  its  object. 

Thus  it  was  with  Arthur  Wilmar,  as  he  took  his 
way  to  Mrs.  Loftus',  where  he  had  not  been  for  several 
days — kept  away  by  the  absorbing  events  we  have 
narrated  in  the  last  two  chapters. 

He  rang  the  bell.  Madame  de  Saintlieu  had  gone ! 
"Gone!"  he  repeated  mechanically  to  the  servant. 
"But  she  will  return?" 

The  servant  did  not  know — he  would  inquire. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  returned.  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu,  he  said,  no  longer  was  staying  with  his  mistress 
— she  had  gone  to  visit  Mrs.  Attarby,  for  a  few  days. 
—Would  Mr.  Wilmar  walk  in? 

A  cold  chill  fell  upon  the  young  man — his  eyes  grew 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  305 

dim — Ills  hands  were  clammy — his  knees  trembled. 
He  motioned  to  the  servant,  who  shut  the  door,  and 
staggered  down  the  steps.  He  knew  not  what  he 
feared — but  still  he  feared.  It  was  as  if  all  had 
changed — as  if  she  were  changed :  and  he  caught  up 
in  his  memory  the  many  dear  and  delightful  interviews 
in  that  stately  old  drawing-room,  as  if  they  and  the 
dream  they  nourished  were  passing  away  forever.  She 
had  gone,  and  sent  him  no  word,  no  permission  to  fol- 
low her !  Perhaps  she  was  angry  at  his  unusual  ab- 
sence ?  No — that  could  not  be,  for  she  well  knew  the 
causes  of  it.  Would  she  ever  see  him  again  ?  Was 
his  fate  already  decided  ?  He  must  know  the  worst ! 
And,  as  he  sped  furiously  along  towards  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Attarby,  once  more  came  back  to  him  the  pic- 
ture of  his  humble,  laborious,  peaceful,  life,  before  this 
wild  vision  broke  upon  him.  Enchantress !  She  had 
raised  the  spell,  and  left  to  him  but  its  madness ! 

At  length — for  the  way  seemed  miles — he  arrived, 
faint,  panting,  and  desperate. 

She  was  not  at  home,  but  would  return  soon,  she 
had  directed  the  servant  to  say,  if  any  one  called.  He 
went  in  and  sat  down  in  the  drawing-room — no  one 
was  there.  He  tried  to  decide  in  his  own  mind,  the 
sofa,  upon  w^hich  she  usually  sat — the  table  where  she 
might  have  laid  her  arm — he  interrogated  the  very 
light  that  came  through  the  heavily-curtained  windows, 
as  to  where  and  in  what  attitude  it  found  her.  A  fresh 
bouquet  stood  on  a  little  table  very  near  him,  almost 
touching  his  elbow.  He  started,  as  if  an  asp  had  crept 
26* 


306  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

from  its  smiling  leaves,  and  stung  him  !  And  yet,  it 
might  not  have  been  for  her.  He  got  up,  and  went 
to  the  piano.  There  were  several  pieces  of  music 
scattered  around,  and  one,  still  open,  on  the  desk  of 
the  instrument,  just  as  the  singer  had  left  it.  He 
eagerly  turned  them  over — he  did  not  recognise  one  of 
them — she  had  never  sung  him  these  !  And  the  piece 
on  the  piano — it  was  a  duett  for  a  masculine  and  a 
feminine  voice !  But  this  music  might  not  be  hers  ? 
Alas,  yes — her  name  was  written  on  the  margin  of 
several  of  the  pieces,  and  especially  on  this  terrible 
duett.     How  he  trembled ! 

Poor  boy !  AYas  he  not  madly  in  love  ?  were  not 
life  and  death  in  such  a  passion  ? 

How  long  he  sat  there,  he  knew  not ;  but,  measured 
by  thoughts  and  emotions,  it  was  half  a  life.  And 
the  other — where  was  that  ?  Would  it  ever  come  back 
to  him  ?  or  was  all  nothing  ? 

At  last  they  returned — Mrs.  Attarby  and  Felice — • 
his  Felice — accompanied  by  a  gentleman  he  had  never 
seen  before.  He  was  a  tall,  superb,  stately-looking 
man,  calm  and  confident,  as  if  he  had  been  used  to 
conquer  every  where,  to  see  all  obstacles  disappear 
before  him.  They  were  laughing  and  talking  gaily — 
he  had  never  seen  Felice  so  animated,  so  excited,  so 
brilliant.  He  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  rushed 
to  her,  to  have  thrown  himself  at  her  feet. — But  alas ! 
all  was  cold  and  formal.  The  introduction  of  a  stranger 
had  broken  the  spell  of  their  joyousness — all  came  back 
instantly  to  the  cold  formality  of  real  every-day  life. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  307 

Madame  de  Saintlieu  greeted  him  kindly,  Mrs.  Attarby 
cordially, — and  then  he  was  presented  duly  to  Captain 
Wallingford,  who  had  just  returned  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  whom  he  had  never  before  seen. 

Mrs.  Attarby  came  and  talked  with  him  about  mu- 
"sic,  about  his  new  compositions,  about  the  famous  noc- 
turne he  had  played  at  Mrs.  Valentine's  concert,  and 
of  which  every  body  had  told  her  so  much.  She  hoped 
that  now  she  had  gotten  Madame  de  Saintlieu  safe  with 
her,  she  should  some  time  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
it.  He  answered  awkwardly,  and  at  random,  and  his 
eyes  wandered  uneasily  to  Felice,  who  was  chatting  with 
Captain  Wallingford,  in  that  doubtful  drawing-room 
tone,  which  may  or  may  not  be  construed  particular  and 
personal,  according  as  the  listener  may  or  may  not  be 
in  love  with  one  of  the  parties.  He  felt  himself  grow 
pale — his  voice  was  choked — he  could  scarcely  speak. 

At,  length.  Captain  Wallingford  rose,  took  his  leave 
— lingering  a  moment,  (at  least  Wilmar  thought  so) 
over  her  hand,  as  she  half  rose  and  gave  him  the  tips 
of  her  fingers.  He  shook  hands  cordially  with  Mrs. 
Attarby,  in  the  American  fashion,  and  bowed  slightly, 
but  civilly,  to  Wilmar,  who  almost  forgot  to  return  his 
salutation,  then  rising  suddenly,  came  forward  in  con- 
fusion, held  out  his  hand,  and  returned  to  his  seat. 
Wallingford  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  a  well-bred 
stare,  and  then  went  out.  Mrs.  Attarby,  begging  to 
be  excused  for  a  moment,  shortly  afterwards  went  up 
stairs,  as  she  said,  to  look  after  some  things  that  she 


308  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

had  ordered  to  be  sent  home  in  the  morning — and  Fe- 
lice and  Wilmar  were  alone. 

"What  is  the  matter  my  dear  friend?"  said  she, 
coming  up  to  him,  in  a  frank,  unembarrassed  \Yaj, 
and  laying  her  hand  softly  on  his  shoulder. 

He  shuddered  and  was  silent. 

"  I  fear  you  are  ill — you  really  look  so.  Has  any 
thing  happened  ?  How  is  your  sister  Helen  ?  In  the 
confusion  of  my  removing  here,  I  have  neglected  to 
come  to  her.  I  hope  she  is  better.  But  you — you 
look  really  ill.     What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"I  have  so  longed  to  see  you, — so  many  strange 
and  sad  things  have  happened !  My  heart  was  too 
full — I  felt  as  if  the  world  were  gliding  away  from 
beneath  my  feet.     I  could  not  stay  away  any  longer  !  " 

"And  why  have  you  staid  away  so  long?  I  have 
been  expecting  to  see  you.  But  then,  the  trial,  and 
the  illness  of  poor  Helen — I  should  have  gone  to  see 
her,  and  I  have  thought  of  her  every  day — but 
then"— 

"Then  what?"  asked  Arthur  eagerly,  seeing  that 
she  hesitated,  and  blushed — only  a  little,  yet,  to  a 
lover's  eye,  very  perceptibly.  "  Oh  Felice  I — Ma- 
dame de  Saintlieu,  I  mean !  Forgive  me !  Do  not 
be  angry  with  me  !     I  am  very  unhappy !  " 

"My  child,  what  indeed  has  happened?"  she  in- 
quired, in  a  tone  of  sincere  and  unmistakeable  in- 
terest. "Tell  me  every  thing.  Am  I  not  your 
friend?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you — I  must  tell  you — every  thing  that 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  309 

is  burning  in  my  heart,  and  pressing  the  life  out  of  it. 
I  will  be  calm — I  will  know  my  fate !  Felice,  I  love 
you — I  am  dying  for  you !  Hear  me  out !  Do  not 
interrupt  me — at  least,  not  yet.  Within  this  hour,  I 
have  fled  from  my  home,  leaving  the  corpse  of  my 
dead  mother,  and  my  sister  perhaps  dying  at  this  very 
moment.  I  could  not  help  it — I  should  have  died  to 
have  remained  away  from  you  another  day.  Felice, 
I  am  rich !  All  our  fortune  has  this  very  day  been 
restored  to  us.  I  am  no  longer  a  poor  struggling  ad- 
venturer— a  wandering  artist.  Dr.  Felton  came  to 
announce  to  us,  this  morning,  that  my  father's  for- 
tune had  been  recovered  from  Mr.  Henderson,  who 
had  appropriated  it  to  himself,  and  falsely  given  out 
that  it  had  been  lost,  by  the  breaking  of  the  bank, 
years  ago,  where  it  was  deposited.  But  this  news 
killed  my  mother,  with  joy.  It  seemed  she  had  staid 
on  earth  only  to  see  her  children  saved  from  poverty 
and  want — and  then  she  hastened  to  rejoin  her  hus- 
band. Poor  Helen,  too,  is  fearfully  overcome,  and  I 
do  not  even  hope  that  she  will  live.  In  this  strange 
hour,  Felice,  my  heart  is  dead  to  all  but  one  emotion 
— love  for  you.  Oh,  can  you  not  love  me  ?  See — I 
throw  my  life  at  your  feet!  No  man  ever  loved' wo- 
man, as  I  love  and  worship  you !  Oh,  take  me ! 
Save  me !  Be  my  guide — my  angel — my  wife !  "  And 
as  he  thus,  in  broken  sentences,  poured  out  his  soul, 
he  caught  her  hand,  he  knelt  at  her  feet,  and  wept 
like  a  child. 

"Arthur,  Arthur!     For  Heaven's  sake,  rise  and 


310  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

compose  yourself !  Remember  -where  we  are !  Mrs. 
Attarby  may  return  every  moment!  Be  calm,  my 
child,  and  listen  to  me !  I  implore  you  to  be  calm — 
can  you  refuse?  " 

"  Speak,  speak !  "  said  he,  staggering  to  a  sofa,  and 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands.  "I  came  to  hear  my 
doom — I  must  know  it.  Do  not  torture  me  !  Is  there 
no  hope?" 

''I  did  not  say  that,  naughty  boy ! "  she  replied, 
in  a  tone  of  assumed  playfulness,  and  striving  to  re- 
gain her  own  composure,  which  had  for  a  moment  been 
overcome  by  his  earnestness  and  impetuosity.  ^'Now 
be  yourself,  dear  Arthur — for  you  are  indeed  dear  to 
me:  and  listen  calmly.  I  know  and  feel  you  love 
me  well — better,  dear  Arthur,  than  I  now  deserve — 
for  I  do  not  so  love  you !  I  once  thought — but,  no 
matter — I  was  mistaken.  I  must  be  true  to  myself, 
as  well  as  to  you.  It  would  be  a  great  wrong  were  I, 
in  pity  for  your  sufferings,  to  tell  you  any  thing  of  my 
own  feelings  that  was  not  exactly  true.  I  hoped  you 
would  have  spared  me  this  trial — I  had  hoped  that 
our  pleasant  and  delightful  friendship  was  to  go  on 
uninterrupted  by  such  violent  demonstrations.  But  it 
is  not  too  late.  I  might  have  loved  you — I  may  love 
you — nay,  I  am  almost  certain  I  shall,  dear  Arthur ! 
Only,  you  must  not  drive  me !  I  am  afraid  I  am  very 
obstinate  and  self-willed !  Do  not  think  I  am  trifling 
with  you,  Arthur,"  she  continued  in  a  graver  tone,  as 
she  saw  how  much  she  pained  him.  "Indeed,  I  set 
full  value  on  your  true  and  noble  love.     And  I  will 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  811 

confess  to  you,  that  my  heart  has  yearned  for  such  a 
love,  and  well  knows  how  to  appreciate  and  respond 
to  it.  Still,  I  must  not  now  accept  it,  without  quali- 
fication or  condition.  Your  heart  is  now  agitated  by 
many  emotions — grief  for  your  mother — anxiety  for 
your  sister.  Let  all  be  between  us  as  it  was  before, 
for  yet  a  little  while.  Let  us  grow  calm,  and  hope, 
dear  Arthur! " 

^'And  is  this  all  there  is  in  your  heart  to  say  to 
me?" 

''  No,  not  all.  You  are  an  artist — you  have  genius 
— you  have  ambition.  Give  way  to  your  inspirations 
— pursue  your  career.  Go  to  Europe,  and  study — 
mix  in  the  world.  You  will  see  there  many  women 
far,  far  superior  to  me.  Try  your  own  heart — be  sure 
of  yourself.     Then,  when  you  return,  if" 

"  Will  you  then  be  mine  ?  Promise  me ! — oh,  swear 
it  to  me — and  I  will  bless  you,  dear  Felice !  " 

^'  There  is  no  need  of  promises  or  oaths,  Arthur. 
If  you  no  longer  loved  me, — or  if  I  should  have 
changed, — we  neither  of  us  could  stoop  to  accept  cold 
and  unreal  vows  from  the  other.  Trust  to  yourself — 
to  love — and  to  Felice." 

"And  you  wish  me  to  go  away  from  you — to  see 
you  no  more  for  a  whole  year !  Ah !  you  do  not  love 
me ! — I  see !  I  see !     My  life  is  accursed !  " 

He  said  this  with  indescribable  bitterness;  and 
rising,  strode  to  the  door,  exclaiming, 

"Farewell!  farewell!" 


312  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried;  "we  must  not  part  thus! 
Arthur !  dear  Arthur  !     Come  back  !  " 

Arthui'  turned — the  light  of  hope  once  more  gleamed 
in  his  eyes — she  was  almost  conquered.  How  could 
she  resist  so  earnest,  so  overwhelming  a  passion,  which 
she  more  than  half  returned  ?  She  held  out  her  hand, 
which  he  sprang  to  seize — but  ere  it  had  reached  his 
burning  lips,  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Attarby  was  heard,  as 
she  entered  the  back  drawing-room. 

"Madame  de  Saintlieu,"  she  said,  "don't  forget  to 
engage  Mr.  Wilmar  to  come  and  play  us  his  nocturne 
next  Sunday  evening.  Captain  Wallingford  has  pro- 
mised to  be  here,  and  some  others." 

"  Come  in  madam,  and  ask  him  yourself — he  was 
just  going,  when  you  called." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  busy !  They  have  not  sent  one  of  my 
packages,  and  I  have  had  to  despatch  John  after 
them.  I'm  in  a  vile  temper,  Mr.  Wilmar,"  she  conti- 
nued, coming  in  through  the  coulisses  that  separated 
the  two  rooms.     "But  do  promise  to  come! " 

"I  cannot  promise,  madam,"  gasped  poor  Wilmar, 
utterly  unable  to  command  himself.  "I  came  but  to 
acquaint  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  as  an  old  friend,  with 
a  heavy  domestic  affliction,  of  whose  nature  I  beg  her 
to  inform  you.  Having  done  so,  I  must  ask  permis- 
sion to  take  my  leave." 

He  bowed,  and  again  found  his  way  mechanically 
to  the  door.  This  time  no  voice  called  him  back.  He 
opened  the  front  door — it  closed  behind  him — and  he 
was  alone ! 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  313 

"  So,  so,  my  friend  !  "  said  Mrs.  Attarby  in  a  rally- 
ing voice;  "there's  mysteries,  an'  you  will !  as  poor 
Launcelot  Gobbo  says.  I  hope  I  spoiled  no  sport  by 
my  untimely  view  halloo  !  " 

''How  absurd  you  are!"  said  Felice,  in  a  pretty 
tone  of  vexation.  "  The  poor  boy  has  just  lost  his 
mother,  and  I  fear  his  sister  will  not  stay  long.  She 
is  dying  of  a  broken  heart,  for  love.  A  terrible  death, 
is  it  not,  my  friend? " 

"  On  the  contrary,  the  most  desirable  of  all  deaths 
— for  then  one  is  not  compelled  to  discover  how  un- 
worthily he  had  bestowed  himself." 

''But  Helen  Wilmar  has  already  discovered  that 
she  loved  Edward  Ingraham." 

"What,  Mrs.  Valentine's  graceless  nephew !  What 
a  weak  spirit  she  must  have,  to  die  for  such  a  crea- 
ture!" 

"  Or  rather,  what  a  strong  heart!  "  replied  Felice, 
as  if  greatly  moved.  "But  tell  me,  my  friend,  you 
that  have  made  the  passions  the  study  of  your  life ; 
what  do  you  think  love  really  is  ?     Is  it  sympathy, 

or  pity,  or  admiration,  or" 

"  Desire !  That  is  it,  in  one  word.  But  the  pro- 
prieties require  that  society  should  assiduously  deceive 
and  cheat  itself.  It  dares  not  own  the  truth. — But  if 
you  would  know  what  I  did  think  love  was,  wait  and 
read  the  evidence  in  my  divorce  trial,  which  I  hear 
will  be  produced  next  season,  as  the  managers  say. — 
Heigho !  Come,  let's  be  merry !  " 
2T 


314  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


THE  CASTLE  IN  THE  MOON. 


We  must  now  explain  why  Madame  de  Saintlieu  had 
left  the  house  of  Mrs.  Loftus,  and  how  it  was  that  Ar- 
thur had  found  her  domiciled  with  Mrs.  Attarby. — 
Madame  de  Saintlieu  had  found  a  congenial  spirit  in 
the  witty  and  audacious  actress ;  and  although  her  own 
tast-e  and  refinement  of  manners  would  not  have  per- 
mitted her  to  indulge  in  the  various  caprices  with  which 
her  new  friend  was  in  the  habit  of  amusing  her- 
self, yet  she  had  sufficient  esprit  and  love  of  innocent 
mischief,  fully  to  sympathize  with  the  spirit  that  dic- 
tated them.  Having  learned  from  Mrs.  Loftus  her- 
self, that  no  acts  of  immorality  had  ever  been  pre- 
ferred against  Mrs.  Attarby,  she  saw  no  reason  why 
she  should  not  escape  from  the  stiff  formality  which 
reigned  in  Mrs.  Loftus'  establishment,  and  the  stupid 
monotony  of  the  pasteboard  routine  of  acquaintance 
which  had  been  vouchsafed  her  by  the  fashionable 
acquaintances  of  Mrs.  Valentine  and  her  set.  The 
acquaintanceship  between  Madame  de  Saintlieu  and 
the  independent  actress,  rapidly  grew  into  friendship. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  315 

and  they  were  almost  continually  together.  Mrs.  Lof- 
tus  had  once  or  twice  remonstrated  with  her  guest,  in 
rather  warm  terms.  But  she  had  replied  that,  if  any 
charge  of  immorality  were  established  against  her  new 
friend,  she  would  give  her  up.  Until  that  was  done, 
she  did  not  feel  that  it  would  be  any  thing  short  of 
cowardice  to  do  so.  ■ 

Meanwhile,  the  position  of  Mrs.  Attarby  had  un- 
dergone a  change,  which,  in  the  eyes  of  Madame  de 
Saintlieu,  would  have  rendered  a  desertion  of  her,  ab- 
solutely base  and  mean — and  her  firm  and  just  spirit 
rose  against  it,  and  determined  her,  at  all  events,  to 
continue  her  intimacy  with  her  new  friend,  now  that 
it  might  be  even  serviceable  to  her. 

After  the  scene  at  Mrs.  Henderson's,  the  various 
cliques  and  sets  of  "  good  society"  came  to  the  unani- 
mous decision  that  this  was  a  favourable  opportunity 
of  venting  their  spleen  upon  Mrs.  Attarby  for  the  in- 
numerable slights  and  mortifications  which  they  had 
suffered  at  her  hands,  and  to  put  her  definitely  in 
Coventry.  For  this  purpose,  Mrs.  Glac^e  and  her  im- 
mediate friends,  to  whose  circle  Mr.  Attarby  had  origi- 
nally belonged,  bent  all  their  energies  to  increase  the 
irritation  he  already  entertained  against  his  wife, 
and  to  induce  him  to  separate  himself  from  her,  for- 
mally, and  commence  proceedings  for  a  divorce.  He 
at  last  consented;  and  immediately  all  those  social 
and  political  influences,  which  make  "society"  om- 
nipotent for  good  or  evil,  when  it  has  decided  to  act 
in  concert,  were  set  to  work. 


31G  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Judges,  magistrates,  and  legislators,  ^snIio  depend 
upon  the  breath  of  popularity  for  their  own  positions, 
are  seldom  just  or  courageous  enough  to  resist  a  popu- 
lar outcry — especially  if  it  is  taken  up  by  the  "first 
families,"  who  give  tone  to  the  classes  beneath,  who 
fear,  worship  and  ape  them,  while  pretending  to  des- 
pise them.  Nothing  is  so  venal,  so  brutal,  so  despotic, 
as  the  social  or  political  "public  opinion"  of  a  demo- 
cracy. BHnd  and  sycophantic,  it  is  ever  glad  of  a  vic- 
tim to  offer  up  as  an  expiation  of  its  own  vices,  and 
a  palliative  of  its  own  self-contempt.  Mediocrity  is 
powerful  only  by  being  banded  together,  and  mutually 
supporting  its  members,  against  any  daring  innovator 
upon  its  realm.  Perpetually  harassed  by  its  own 
petty  squabbles  and  rivalries,  yet  it  knows  its  weak- 
ness, and  instantly  forgets  or  suspends  its  minor  dif- 
ferences, and  unites  unanimously  against  a  common 
foe. 

This  was  the  cold-blooded,  cautious,  remorseless  and 
malignant  foe,  whom  Mrs.  Attar  by  had  habitually 
provoked,  and  who  was  now  about  to  throw  off  the 
mask  and  commence  unrelenting  warfare  upon  her. 
Her  indifference  and  disdain  of  all  around  her,  ren- 
dered her  blind  to  all  these  occult  elements  of  the  con- 
test in  which  she  was  engaged ;  and  she  felt  strong 
enough  to  defy  the  whole  world  into  which,  through 
her  marriage,  she  had  entered.  The  worst  that  could 
happen  to  her — thus  she  reasoned — was  its  entire  loss ; 
and  that  would  rather  amuse  than  annoy  her. 

But  Mrs.  Attarby  overlooked  the  main  fact  in  lier 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  317 

position — the  terrible  and  crushing  power  of  calumny. 
It  is  not  enough  that  "society"  beats  down  its  victims 
— it  never  leaves  them  until  it  has  so  fouled  them  over 
with  slander  and  calumny,  that  the  cowardly  world 
beyond  dares  not  approach  them. 

Mrs.  Loftus,  who  understood  while  she  despised  the 
society  in  which  she  moved,  knew  and  felt  all  this ; 
and  she  knew,  besides,  that  Madame  de  Saintlieu, 
whom  she  really  esteemed,  by  persisting  in  her  inti- 
macy with  Mrs.  Attarby,  would  inevitably  be  included 
in  her  fate.  Already  the  discovery  of  her  relation  to 
"the  little  French  grisette,"  Rosalie  de  Morny,  had 
caused  several  of  her  former  patronesses  to  shrug  their 
shoulders  and  avert  their  countenances.  Mrs.  Valen- 
tine had  even  been  heard  to  declare  that  she  had  no 
reason  for  supposing  that  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  as 
she  chose  to  call  herself,  was  what  she  pretended  to 
be.  Mrs.  Glacee  was  sure  that  her  turning  out  to  be 
the  aunt  of  a  little  naughty  French  shop-girl  wasn't 
much  in  her  favour — and  Mrs.  Balderskin  wondered 
that  they  had  not  noticed  the  very  evident  intimacy 
that  existed  between  her  and  Wilmar,  the  pianist. — 
Certainly  nothing  could  be  lower  or  more  vulgar,  than 
falling  in  love  with  an  artist ! 

Miss  Jemima  Jenkins,  who  had  been  admitted  to 
this  grand  female  divan  on  the  character  and  fate  of 
Madame  de  Saintlieu,  scarcely  waited,  in  her  impa- 
tience to  spread  the  news,  to  hear  its  final  decision — 
which  was,  quietly  and  politely,  (every  thing  in  good 
27* 


318  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

society  is  done  quietly  and  politely,)  to  withdraw  their 
countenance  and  protection  from  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu,  and  suffer  her  gently  to  subside  into  obscurity. 

''I  am  sui'e,"  said  Jemima,  with  a  most  virtuous 
blush  of  indignation ;  "  there  is  no  use  in  seeking  for 
reasons.  Is  it  not  notorious  that  she  is  almost  con- 
stantly with  that  Mrs.  Attarby  ?  That,  I  should  think, 
was  enough  to  stamp  her  character." 

"Is  that  so? — I  was  not  aware  of  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Glacee. 

"  Fact-^I  saw  them  myself,  yesterday,  in  Mrs.  At- 
tarby's  carriage,"  said  Jemima.  "  They  both  had  the 
impudence  to  nod  and  laugh  at  me,  as  they  went  by ; 
but  you  may  be  sure  I  did  not  return  it." 

"This  intimacy,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Balderskin,  with 
an  air  of  horrified  virtue,  "  settles  the  affair.  I  sup- 
pose we  shall  have  Mrs.  Captain  Wallingford  to  attend 
to  next.  What  has  become  of  her,  I  wonder?  She's 
quite  as  bad  as  the  others." 

"Oh,  worse — a  great  deal  worse!"  exclaimed  Je- 
mima; "1  can  tell  you  all  about  that.  Her  husband 
has  just  got  back  from  the  Mediterranean;  and  on 
hearing  of  all  the  pranks  she  had  been  playing,  imme- 
diately sent  her  off  to  her  friends  in  the  country.  He 
found  her  at  Mrs.  Attarby's.  They  had  a  terrible 
scene — crying,  cursing,  and  all  that.  And  the  funniest 
part  is,  that  the  captain  is  a  constant  visiter  at  Mrs. 
Attarby's,  and  goes  out  almost  every  day  with  her  and 
Madame,  dividing  his  attentions  pretty  equally  be- 
tween them." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  319 

"No  wonder  he  wanted  his  wife  out  of  the  way!'* 
suggested  Mrs.  Glacee,  maliciously. 

"A  pretty  set,  certainly!"  said  Mrs.  Balderskin, 
*^  to  thrust  themselves  into  good  society !  It  is  high 
time  to  get  rid  of  them  all !  "  And  so  the  conference 
broke  up. 

Jemima's  first  visit,  with  her  bran  new  budget  of 
news,  was  to  Mrs.  Loftus. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Loftus,"  exclaimed  she,  breathless 
with  her  speed,  as  she  rushed  into  the  little  back 
drawing-room,  which  Mrs.  Loftus  used  for  her  own 
private  sitting-room ;  "  what  do  you  think !  I  have  just 
come  from  Mrs.  Glacee's,  and  they  have  all  had  a 
meeting,  and  determined  to  give  up  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu — if  that  is,  indeed,  her  name.  I  thought  you 
would  be  glad  to  hear  the  news,  and  so  I  made  it  a 
duty  to  come  off  directly  and  tell  you." 

"They?  who? — Give  up  Madame  de  Saintlieu! — 
Why,  what  does  all  this  mean?  " 

"Why,  Mrs.  Glacee,  and  Mrs.  Balderskin,  and  all 
of  them  of  our  set,  you  know.  They  think  it  isn't  be- 
coming in  good  society  to  patronize  the  relative  of  a 
French  shop-girl,  who  was  killed  in  a — you  know,  a 
house !" 

"No,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Loftus ;  "but  go  on !" 

"  And  then,  her  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Attarby,  whom 
now  nobody  pretends  to  speak  to,  since  she  has  be- 
come almost  as  good  as  a  divorcee,  you  know! " 

"  Well !— and  what  of  Mrs.  Valentine  ?  " 


320  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"Oh,  slie  gives  lier  up,  decidedly.  She  was  the 
first  to  see  the  necessity  of  it." 

"  A  notable  synod  of  purity  and  virtue,  truly !  '* 
said  Mrs.  Loftus,  ironically.  "  And  you,  Miss  Jenkins 
— I  suppose  you  fully  subscribe  this  verdict  of  con- 
demnation against  Madame  de  Saintlieu?" 

"  Oh,  yes — you  see — society  must  be  careful  of  who 
it  admits  into  its  bosom,  you  know,  Mrs.  Loftus ! — 
There  are  so  many  impostors  and  adventurers  " — 

"  Stop ! — Not  another  word,  Miss  Jenkins !  Nor  do 
I  thank  you  for  your  visit.  Let  me  tell  you,  however, 
since  you  are  here,  that  Madame  de  Saintlieu  is  my 
friend.  I  introduced  her  into  the  immaculate  circle 
of  your  friends,  and  I  am  a  guarantee  for  her  cha- 
racter. Indeed,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  I  only  hesi- 
tated because  I  knew  how  unworthy  they  were  of  the 
friendship  of  such  a  woman.  You  can  tell  them  so  as 
soon  as  you  please.  And  tell  them,  too,  that  they 
must  include  me  in  their  proscription.  I  shall  not 
feel  honoured  by  having  my  threshold  crossed  by  any 
of  those  who  have  conspired  against  my  friend.  Good 
day.  Miss  Jenkins!" 

"Stop,  stop!"  said  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  coming 
in  from  the  front  drawing-room.  "  I  have  heard  all. 
I  had  just  come  in ;  and  I  was  so  weak  and  foolish 
that  Miss  Jenkins'  first  words  unnerved  me,  and  I 
could  not  avoid  hearing  all  she  said,  and  your  noble 
reply.  But  it  cannot  be,  my  worthy  friend !  Never 
will  I  consent  to  see  you  sacrificed  for  me !  I  will 
leave  you  this  very  day." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  321 

"  Sacrificed  !— Who  talks  of  sacrifices  ?  What  do  I 
want  of  them  ? — What  do  I  care  for  them  ? — They  are 
nothing  to  me. — Go,  Miss  Jenkins — you  have  made 
mischief  enough ! — Go !  " 

Jemima  did  not  stay  for  another  invitation;  but 
gathering  up  her  scarf,  and  just  waiting  to  dispose  it 
fascinatingly  from  her  shoulders,  departed — glad  to 
escape  what  she  vaguely  imagined  might  become  a 
scene  rather  disagreeable  to  her. 

"Now,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Loftus,  going  up 
to  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  and  kissing  her  cheek  with 
true  motherly  afi'ection ;  "  dismiss  that  angry  flush 
from  your  face,  and  the  fire  from  your  eyes  I  Do  not 
let  us  be  disturbed  by  the  chattering  of  such  a  mag- 
pie as  that.  Are  we  not  friends? — Do  I  not  know 
you?  And  for  Mrs.  Valentine  and  her  set — why 
they  are  as  tainted  in  morals  as  they  are  underbred 
and  overdressed.  What  do  I  care  for  them  ?  Nor 
shall  you,  either !  We  can  both  afford  to  despise  them." 

"  You  are  indeed  my  friend,"  said  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu,  weeping  freely.  "  Never  shall  I  forget  your  kind- 
ness. But  you  must  not  ask  me  to  stay  with  you — I 
could  no  longer  respect  myself,  if  I  did  so.  To-mor- 
row, at  the  latest,  my  dear  Mrs.  Loftus,  I  will  leave 
your  house ;  but  let  me  continue  to  dwell  in  your 
heart — I  will  never  prove  unworthy — never !" 

*'Hush,  child — don't  agitate  yourself  about  such  a 
Get  of  veritable  canaille.  Come  up  stairs  and  see 
your  little  Marie.  She  has  been  complaining  sadly, 
and  I  fear  we  must  send  for  Dr.  Felton." 


322  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

The  mother's  heart  took  the  alarm.  Forgetting 
every  thing  but  her  chiki,  she  hurried  up  stairs. 

The  next  morning,  while  the  two  ladies  were  at 
breakfast,  Mrs.  Loftus  still  trying  to  dissuade  her 
friend  from  her  settled  purpose,  a  note  was  brought  to 
Madame  de  Saintlieu,  which  had  just  been  left  at  the 
door,  while  the  messenger  waited  for  an  answer. — 
Begging  permission  to  read  it,  she  opened  it  and  read 
as  follows : 

"  My  dear  Madame : — Thanks  to  that  living  even- 
ing paper,  called  the  Jemima,  I  have  heard  all  about 
the  grand  conclave  at  Mrs.  Glacee's,  and  your  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Loftus  and  Miss  Jenkins.  I  am  now 
absolutely  alone :  —  Captain  AYallingford  has  come 
home  from  sea,  and  banished  his  wife  to  the  country 
— Mr.  Attarby  is  about  divorcing  me, — and  you  can 
imagine  how  disconsolate  I  am.  If  Mrs.  Loftus  can 
consent  to  consign  you  to  me,  I  will  engage  not  to 
corrupt  your  morals  nor  compromise  your  character, 
but  will  be  in  all  things  convenaUe — as  I  never  would 
consent  to  be,  when  it  would  have  been  of  service  to 
me.  I  sincerely  and  earnestly  hope  that  you  will 
come.  I  am  dying  of  ennui,  and  I  am  sure  that  we 
can  amuse  and  profit  one  another.  If  you  will  come, 
send  me  word  by  the  messenger,  and  I  will  come  and 
fetch  you  off  in  triumph.         Ever  yours, 

"Pauline  Attarby." 

Madame  de  Saintlieu  read  this  note  in  silence — 
then,  begging  to  be  excused  for  a  moment,  hurried  to 
her  own  room — wrote  simply — ''I  will  come — fetch 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  323 

me  at  three,"  and  directing  it  to  Mrs.  Attarby,  gave 
it  herself  to  the  messenger  in  the  hall,  and  re-entered 
the  breakfast-room. 

"There,  my  dear  friend,"  said  she  to  Mrs.  Loftus, 
"  I  have  settled  it  all,  and  put  farther  friendly  resis- 
tance out  of  your  power.  I  have  just  answered  this 
in  the  affirmative" — and  she  laid  Mrs.  Attarby's  in- 
vitation on  the  table. 

"It  is  cordial  and  sincere,"  said  Mrs.  Loftus,  after 
she  had  read  it;  "and  I  do  not  doubt  you  will  enjoy 
yourself  much  better  there,  than  in  my  gloomy  old 
Doubting  Castle  here.  I  shall  not  oppose  it  any  far- 
ther. Only — remember,  that,  if  at  any  time  or  from 
any  cause,  you  find  it  convenient  to  leave  Mrs.  At- 
tarby, you  will  at  once,  without  any  ceremony,  return 
to  me.  Your  little  apartment  shall  be  kept  ready  for 
you,  so  that  you  may  take  possession  of  it  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice." 

"  Oh,  how  shall  I  thank  you,  how  repay  you !  "  said 
Felice,  while  tears  of  gratitude  and  ajQfection  rose  un- 
bidden to  her  eyes. 

"By  being  happy,  and  making  others  so,"  said 
Mrs.  Loftus,  kissing  her  tenderly. 

At  three  o'clock,  precisely,  Mrs.  Attarby  came  for 
her  new  guests — and  little  Marie  having  entirely  re- 
covered from  her  yesterday's  debauch  on  hon  bons, 
they  were  all  ready.  Mrs.  Attarby,  however,  was 
not  alone :  a  tall,  handsome  man,  with  a  free,  jovial 
countenance,  and  an  easy,  travelled  air,  attended  her, 
and  was  introduced  as  Captain  Wallingford. — Merely 


324  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

exchanging  the  necessary  greetings  with  Mrs.  Loftus 
and  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  he  fell  to  playing  at  once 
with  the  children,  with  all  the  freedom  and  abandon- 
ment of  a  romping  school-boy,  or  a  Newfoundland  dog. 
They  were  not  in  the  least  shy — contrary  to  their  usual 
habit,  which  was  the  excess  of  timidity  and  reserve. 
In  less  than  five  minutes  they  were  romping  and 
laughing  as  merrily  with  their  new  acquaintance,  as  if 
they  had  known  him  all  their  little  lives. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  let  me  come,  Mrs.  Attarby !  " 
exclaimed  Wallingford,  as  he  threw  the  youngest  girl  to 
the  ceiling,  and  jumped  the  other  as  high  as  his  head. 
''  We'll  have  famous  times — won't  we  darlings  !  There 
— run  and  tell  mamma  that  she  must  forgive  me  for 
my  rudeness,  because  I  love  you  so  very  much." 

"  Mamma !"  said  the  youngest,  toddling  off,  and 
looking  like  a  flower  holding  up  its  face  to  be  looked 
at ;  "  you  must  for  dive  ye  genplum,  betause  he  loves 
you  so  very  much !" 

The  mother  and  the  stranger  laughed,  as  their  eyes 
met ;  and  all  embarrassment  was  instantly  at  an  end  : 
or  rather,  there  was  something  so  inexpressibly  win- 
ning in  the  fresh  and  unstudied  frankness  of  the 
stranger,  that  embarrassment  was  out  of  the  question. 
He  seemed  to  have  brought  with  him  the  gay,  bright, 
laughing  atmosphere  of  the  Mediterranean. 

At  last  the  leave-taking  was  over;  and  promising 
to  come  and  see  her  friend  soon,  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu  pressed  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Loftus,  and  was  handed 
to  the  carriage  by  the  attentive  ^Captain.     Tlien  he 


OUn  FIRST  FAMILIES.  325 

tossed  in  the  children,  who  screamed  with  delight  at 
their  new  friend;  and,  bestowing  Mrs.  Attarby  in- 
side, observed  that  they  were  "all  full,"  and  that  he 
would  walk  about  his  business. 

This  was  objected  to  by  all  the  ladies — especially 
by  the  small  ones,  who  protested  that  they  could  sit 
"  away  up  in  this  little  corner,"  so  that  there  would 
be  plenty  of  room. 

"We'll  soon  settle  that  part  of  the  business,  since 
it  must  be  so ! "  said  he,  getting  in,  and  taking  the 
little  ladies  aforesaid,  one  on  each  knee.  "I  must 
beg  you,  however,  "he  added,  "to  let  me  be  set  down 
at  Chestnut  street,  where  I  am  obliged  to  stop.  If 
you  will  permit  me,  I  will  do  myself  the  honour  of 
calling  to-morrow,  to  ask  my  new  friends  here  how 
they  like  their  new  hostess.  If  you  don't  like  her, 
my  dears,"  he  continued,  "you  must  tell  me  to-morrow, 
when  I  come,  and  I'll  take  you  away  directly  to  a 
grand  castle  in  the  moon,  built  of  sugar-plums  and 
rock  candy." 

"Oh,  won't  that  be  nice!"  exclaimed  both  the 
small  ladies,  while  their  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure 
and  anticipation. 


^8 


326  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

THE   CROSS. 

"VYallixgford  was  an  extraordinary  character.  He 
was  the  personification  of  jojousness.  He  brought 
sunshine  and  smiles  wherever  he  came.  He  was  not  a 
genius ;  but  he  was  a  thorough  appreciator  of  all  forms 
of  genius  in  others — and  clever  people,  especially  clever 
women,  are  more  grateful  for  appreciation  than  for  wor 
ship.  Worship  is  too  silent,  too  timid,  too  unobtrusive — 
even  sometimes  it  is  mal  cl  propos !  It  requires  the 
worshipped  one  to  keep  her  faculties  continually  on  the 
strain  !  But  appreciation  and  admiration  are  the  whole- 
some and  necessary  stimulants  of  daily  existence.  In 
short,  the  patriarchs  of  the  Pentateuch  were  right,  in 
this,  as  in  so  many  other  matters :  worship  should  be 
paid  only  to  God.  And  yet  no  man  of  genius  ever 
truly  loved,  who  did  not  worship. 

But  Captain  Wallingford,  as  we  have  said,  was  not 
a  man  of  genius ;  he  was  simply  a  gay,  gallant,  noble- 
hearted,  dashing  fellow,  who  went  through  the  world 
with  all  his  senses  wide  awake,  prepared  to  drink  in 
all  the  enjoyment  that  oflfered,  in  a  moderate  way,  to 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  327 

any  of  them.  He  was  liked  by  men,  a  favourite  with 
women,  and  adored  by  children. 

This  latter  reason,  doubtless,  it  principally  was,  that 
made  him  come  every  day  to  Mrs.  Attarby's ;  and  yet 
he  often  staid  far  into  the  evening,  long  after  his  pets, 
sleepy  with  fun,  had  gone  to  their  dreams,  wishing 
mamma  and  the  captain  good  night,  and  leaving  them 
to  theirs ! 

The  ladies  were  both  almost  as  much  delighted  with 
the  captain  as  were  the  children.  He  chatted  so 
pleasantly  about  all  he  had  just  left  in  Europe — of 
Naples,  and  Milan,  and  the  beautiful  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean — of  every  thing  that  carried  back  the 
mind  of  Felice  to  her  happy  days,  and  took  her  out 
of  the  present.  Then  they  sang  duetts — for  Walling- 
ford  was  a  good  musician,  and  had  a  not  indifferent 
voice — while  Mrs.  Attarby  read,  or  played  audience — 
and  then,  a  little  later,  they  had  lunch,  in  the  half- 
lighted  back  drawing-room, — a  cold  pheasant  (Penn- 
sylvania pheasant,  we  mean,  reader — angltce,  ruffed 
grouse,)  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and  conversation  that 
outsparkled  the  wine,  and,  like  it,  sent  an  electric  sti- 
mulus to  the  brain — and  then  good  night ! 

Oh,  rare  and  precious  relief  from  all  the  platitudes, 
the  conventionalisms,  the  stupidity,  the  ennui,  of 
"  good  society !  "  no  wonder  that  poor  Felice,  breathing 
once  more  a  congenial  atmosphere,  felt  her  nature  ex- 
pand, forgot  all  the  gossip  and  clamour  without,  and 
gave  herself  up  to  two  alternating  emotions  —  the 
pleasure  of  Wallingford's  society,  when  he  was  pre- 


328  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

sent,  and  the  sweet  solicitude  of  expecting  him,  when 
he  was  absent. 

She  thought  sometimes  of  Arthur,  and  wondered 
why  he  did  not  come  to  see  her.  But  probably  he  was 
very  busy — or  perhaps,  she  said  to  herself,  with  bitter- 
ness, he  had  joined  with  her  enemies,  or  did  not  feel 
interest  enough  in  her,  or  was  not  strong  enough  to 
resist  the  current.  It  is  true,  her  heart  accused  her 
of  injustice  at  this ;  but  she  had,  after  all,  no  available 
means  of  deciding  the  question,  and — and — the  bell 
rang,  and  she  forgot  all  about  it !  Wallingford  had 
come! 

A  day  or  two  before  the  trial  of  Henderson  and  In- 
graham  was  to  come  on,  Mrs.  Attarby  came  into  her 
room,  early  in  the  morning,  laughing  and  clapping 
her  hands  with  glee. 

"  Huzza !  "  she  cried,  snatching  the  lace-filled  night- 
cap from  her  head  and  throwing  it  in  the  air,  while 
her  glossy  black  hair  fell  in  waves  over  her  shoulders 
and  bosom,  from  which  her  energetic  gesture  had  dis- 
placed the  loose  dressing-gown  she  had  but  half  put 
on;  "huzza!  We  have  got  a  champion — or  rather, 
you  have  got  a  champion,  my  dear  Felice — worthy  of 
Ashby  de  la  Zouche,  or  the  fervent  sand-plains  of  the 
Diamond  of  the  Desert.*  I  have  just  had  the  story 
from  Susan,  who  got  it  from  the  laundress,  whose  hus- 
band is  the  hair-dresser  at  Jones' — so  you  see  that  it 
is  on  the  most  unquestionable  authority.  Oh,  it's  a 
capital  affair ! ' ' 

*  See  Scott's  "Talisman." — Author. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  329 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  "  said  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  quietly, 
putting  her  naked  feet  into  a  pair  of  minute  slippers, 
and  throwing  a  peignior  round  her  glistening  shoulders 
as  she  stepped  out  of  the  shower-bath. 

"What  is  it?  Why,  thus  it  runs.  Last  night,  a 
company  of  our  jeunesse  doree  were  collected  at  Jones', 
discussing  the  all-absorbing  topics  of  Mrs.  Attarby  and 
her  new  friend  the  French  madame,  when  a  gentleman 
— who  was  of  the  party — ventured  to  remark  that  he 
of  course  had  nothing  to  say  of  me,  in  that  place, — 
the  careful,  worthy  man ! — but  that,  as  for  her  friend, 
that  Frenchwoman,  he  believed  she  was  a " 

"A  what?"  inquired  our  champion,  very  quietly 
coming  forward. 

"What  is  that  to  you,  sir?     I  say  she  is  a " 

But  we  shall  never  know  what  the  gentleman  thinks 
you  are ;  for  before  he  could  get  any  further  in  his  al- 
phabet, our  champion  coolly  doubles  up  his  fist  and 
knocks  him  down!     Isn't  it  delightful?  " 

"  But  who  is  this  champion  ?  "  asked  Felice,  colouring 
to  the  temples,  and  trying  to  look  innocent  of  all  idea 
on  the  subject. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that!"  exclaimed  the  other, 
laughing;  "but  I'll  ask  Captain  Wallingford,  this 
afternoon,  when  he  comes.  Perhaps  he  may  have 
heard  something  about  it ! — There !  You  needn't  kick 
your  slipper  into  the  child's  crib,  so  spitefully !  It  is 
a  pretty  foot,  though !  I  shall  positively  fall  despe- 
rately in  love  with  you,  one  of  these  days  !  But  come, 
28* 


380  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

put  your  feet  into  your  stockings,  restore  your  banished 

slipper  to  favour,  and  come  to  breakfast "  and  she 

ran  off,  singing,  "  Oh,  the  days  Tvhen  "^e  went  gipsey- 
ing,  long  time  ago!  " 

Poor  Arthur!  He  never  had  knocked  down  any 
body  for  Felice — nor  do  I  believe,  that  if  the  opportu- 
nity had  offered,  he  would  have  managed  to  come  off 
with  eclat  in  the  undertaking.  It  is  true,  that  he 
would  have  cheerfully  been  knocked  down  for  her,  a 
dozen  times — or  if  need  be,  he  would  have  died  with- 
out a  murmur,  to  give  her  happiness,  or  defend  her 
from  injury.  But  there  would  have  been  nothing 
brilliant  in  that.  But  to  knock  down  a  man  that  abuses 
you !  What  woman  can  resist  it  ?  Such  a  blow  does 
execution  upon  her,  as  well  as  upon  her  slanderer ! 

And  yet.  Captain  Wallingford  had  never  spoken  of 
love  to  Madame  de  Saintlieu.  She  would  have  beeia 
startled  and  awakened  at  the  first  syllable,  had  he 
ventured  upon  it.  She  knew  he  was  a  married  man 
— separated  from  his  wife,  it  was  true,  but  still  her 
husband.  And  she  fully  believed,  what  Mrs.  Attarby 
had  assured  her — that  Mrs.  Wallingford  was  entirely 
innocent,  and  had  been  basely  and  foully  slandered  to 
her  husband.  She  had  even  determined  to  make  use 
of  any  little  influence  she  might  have  acquired  over 
him,  to  induce  him  to  receive  her  back,  and  listen  to 
her  justification.  She  would  still  do  so — she  would 
speak  of  the  subject  to  him  that  very  day! 

But  somehow,  something  occurred — I  know  not  ex- 
actly how  it  was,  nor  what  occurred — to  prevent  her 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  331 

speaking  about  his  wife,  that  day,  to  the  captain,  al- 
though he  conversed  with  her  a  long  time  on  many 
other  subjects — especially  of  Italy,  and  the  beautiful 
climate,  and  the  lovely  and  peaceful  life  two  people 
might  lead  there,  so  that  they  but  truly  loved.  And 
yet,  although  her  cheek  glowed  with  the  tints  of  that 
Italian  sky  at  morning,  and  her  heart  beat  with  wild, 
sweet  throbs,  to  which  she  would  not  listen,  yet  could 
not  still — he  spoke  no  word  of  love  to  her. 

Poor  Arthur ! 

In  the  midst  of  this  sweet  and  dangerous  life,  when 
she  began  to  taste  the  reality  of  those  emotions  she 
had  inspired  in  the  dreamy  and  enthusiastic  young 
artist, — he  came.  Her  heart  smote  her  for  her  in- 
voluntary infidelity — an  infidelity  that  could,  she  knew 
and  felt,  lead  to  no  consummation ;  and  when  she  stood 
over  the  kneeling  boy,  pouring  his  wealth  of  passion 
and  devotion  at  her  feet,  all  her  better  nature  came 
back,  and  she  murmured  to  herself,  while  she  passed 
her  slight  fingers  over  her  temples,  as  if  to  disenchant 
herself, 

"What  a  heart  am  I  exchanging  for  a  dream! " 

Yet  still,  she  delayed — she  could  not  yet  give  up 
the  dream.  Are  there  not  days  and  periods  in  the 
existence  of  all  high  natures,  when  the  whole  of  life 
seems  but  a  dream,  and  when  the  heart  clings  fondly 
to  the  brightest? 

But  at  last — when  her  poor  Arthur  was  about  to 
leave  her  in  despair,  her  heart  relented — a  divine  pity 
took  possession  of  her  soul — she  forgot  all  but  him,  and 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


his  pure  and  immeasurable  love.  At  that  moment, 
but  for  the  untimely  interruption  of  Mrs.  Attarbj, 
the  fate  of  those  two  hearts  had  been  sealed.     But 


now: 

At  first  she  thought  of  writing,  and  calling  him  back 
to  her.  But  this  idea  she  soon  abandoned.  If  he 
really  loved  her,  as  he  said, — if  he  could  not  live  with- 
out her, — he  would  come  back — he  would  be  sure  to 
come  back !  But  she  was  mistaken.  He  really  and 
truly  did  love  her,  as  he  said — and  it  was  true  that  he 
could  not  live  w^ithout  her : — but  he,  too,  was  proud. 
He  could  die !     He  came  no  more. 

The  interview  with  AYiimar,  however,  had  thoroughly 
startled  and  alarmed  her,  by  showing  the  nature,  or  at 
least  the  strong  tendency,  of  her  own  feelings  towards 
Captain  Wallingford — feelings  in  which  it  would  be 
madness  to  indulge,  and  which  she  determined,  at  any 
sacrifice,  to  check  and  uproot,  before  it  was  too  late. 
After  long  and  painful  thought,  she  decided  how  best 
and  most  effectually  this  was  to  be  done.  Then  she 
went  up  to  Mrs.  Attarby's  study,  where  the  two  women 
sat  and  talked  earnestly  for  a  long  time.  Then  Mrs. 
Attarby  wrote  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Wallingford,  and  sent 
it  to  the  post ;  after  which  she  went  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  saying  she  hai 
a  head-ache,  went  to  her  own  room,  and  kissing  her 
sleeping  children,  sat  down  in  her  little  low  chair,  and 
leaning  her  head  on  the  foot  of  the  baby's  crib,  wept 
for  a  long,  long  time.  She  recalled  all  the  tenderness 
and  afi"ection  she  had  felt  for  Arthur — all  his  pure  and 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  333 

unselfish  devotion,  in  those  long,  dark,  hopeless  days 
that  followed  her  discovery  of  Rosalie — and  of  the  real 
love  that  she  had  felt  springing  up  for  him  in  the  fresh 
soil  of  her  heart,  new  ploughed  by  the  rude  hand  of 
sorrow  and  affliction.  She  turned  away  resolutely 
from  the  bright,  brief  vision  that  had  lately  come  to 
haunt  her  dreams — she  saw  only  her  poor  artist  lover, 
with  his  pale  face,  his  deep  spiritual  eyes,  his  heart 
overflowing  with  love  and  devotion.  Then  she  lifted 
up  her  face,  and  wiped  away  her  tears.  She  was  calm 
and  beautiful  as  an  angel.  The  battle  was  over,  the 
victory  won. 

Oh,  such  beings  are  the  Christs  of  daily  life — every 
epoch  in  their  existence  has  its  Gethsemane,  and  its 
crown  of  thorns — every  day,  in  tears  of  blood,  they 
expiate  the  suff'erings  and  the  weakness  of  others,  in 
the  holy  crucifixion  of  self-sacrifice.  Oh  man  !  Ab- 
sorbed in  the  fierce  pursuit  of  phantoms  that  mock 
and  madden,  how  little  heedest  thou  those  rare  and 
infrequent  spirits  sent  from  heaven  to  bless  and  save 
thee! 


334  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


TWO    OF    THE     "FIRST    FAMILIES/' 

From  the  court-room,  Mr.  Henderson,  the  exem- 
plary husband  and  father,  of  course  hastened  to  his 
home,  to  greet  his  affectionate  wife  and  daughter,  who 
were  awaiting,  with  wonderful  calmness,  the  result  of 
the  tiial. 

You  think  so  ?  Then  do  we  regret  that  we  have 
failed  in  imparting  a  faithful  idea  of  the  absolute  sel- 
fishness and  worldliness — even  to  the  overcoming  of 
the  family  tie,  the  only  natural  passion  which  civili- 
zation acknowledcres — that  characterizes  the  members 
of  our  first  families. 

What  was  it  that  Ira  Henderson  loved  best  in  all 
the  world?  His  wife  and  children?  Bah!  His 
money  bags. 

And  so,  convulsed  with  impatience  and  apprehen- 
sion at  what  might  have  happened  during  his  absence, 
and  groaning  over  the  fearful  hole  in  his  assets,  which 
must  have  been  left  by  the  restitution  to  the  Wilmars, 
he  rushed  towards  Third  street.  When  his  life  was  in 
danger,  and  he   thouo:ht  he  saw  the  gallows  at  his 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  335 

elbow,  the  restoration  of  this  sum  had  seemed  but  a 
paltry  amount,  compared  with  what  it  purchased — 
life.  Now,  that  he  was  free,  he  began  to  think  that 
he  had  been  juggled — that  he  could  have  got  off  for 
much  less — for  half — for  a  quarter.  What  a  fool  he 
had  been  !  He  actually  felt  as  if  he  had  been  cheated, 
and  began  to  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  some  means 
of  redress. 

But  it  was  too  late — nor,  indeed,  would  any  subterfuge 
have  availed  him.  Dr.  Felton,  though  generally  so 
easy  and  careless,  lacked  neither  for  spirit  nor  shrewd- 
ness, when  the  occasion  demanded  their  exercise.  His 
suspicions  once  aroused,  and  subsequently  confirmed 
by  Henderson's  confession,  he  was  by  no  means  the 
man  to  be  put  off  or  deceived.  Nothing  less  than  im- 
mediate and  full  restitution  would  have  saved  the 
quaker's  neck.  Had  he  accepted  anything  less,  he 
would  have  felt  himself  an  accessory  to  the  original 
fraud !  We  have  seen  how  utterly  unmanageable  the 
astute  Mr.  Spearbill  had  been  found  by  him — Hender- 
son would  have  fared  no  better. 

Trying  to  reconcile  himself,  then,  to  his  immense 
loss,  as  he  could  not  help  considering  it,  he  hastened 
to  the  store,  where  he  found  everything  as  usual — the 
salesmen  all  at  their  places,  the  cashier  at  his  desk ; 
while  the  head  book-keeper  advanced  obsequiously  to 
meet  him,  precisely  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and 
his  principal  was  returning  from  his  usual  twelve 
o'clock  lunch.  So  far,  well.  But  that  was  nothing 
— now  for  the   banking-house,  which   was   his   real 


336  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

wealth.  What  of  that  ?  His  heart  beat,  in  spite  of 
his  iron  self-control:  he  felt  "weak,  and  determined  to 
go  into  his  private  office  for  a  few  minutes,  to  recover 
himself.  The  head  book-keeper  followed  him  in,  care- 
fully closing  the  door  after  him. 

Henderson  sat  down  in  his  revolving  chair,  which 
evidently  had  not  been  moved  or  used  since  he  had 
last  occupied  it,  for  the  dust  had  gathered  on  the 
smooth-worn  leathern  seat,  and  on  the  table  by  which 
it  stood.  He  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window — he 
opened  it — shut  it  again — and  returned  nervously  to 
his  seat.  The  book-keeper  stood  near  the  door,  as 
if  waiting  to  be  spoken  to.  At  last,  he  mustered  up 
courage. 

"Joseph  Brock,"  said  he,  "has  thee  any  thing  par- 
ticular to  tell  me?  Is  there  any  news  among  the 
world's  people?" 

"Not  much,"  replied  Brock,  who  had  acquired  the 
habit  of  quaker  brevity  and  directness  in  his  speech. 
"  The  house  of  Fisher,  Brothers  and  Son,  failed  yes- 
terday, and  closed  their  doors." 

"Great  Heaven!"  screamed  the  quaker,  leaping 
up  as  if  a  bullet  had  passed  through  his  heart,  and 
forgetting  at  once  his  piety  and  his  personal  pronouns ; 
"you  lie  !     You  dare  not  tell  me  so  !  " 

The  book-keeper  was  even  more  astounded  than 
frightened.  He  opened  his  eyes  wide  with  wonder, 
and  replied, 

"Why,  sir,  it  is  in  the  papers,  this  morning, — and 
the  banking-house  is  closed." 


our.  FIRST  FAMILIES.  337 

Henderson  staid  to  hear  no  more  —  but  rushed 
through  the  store,  almost  foaming  at  the  mouth, 
towards  the  banking-house.  Those  who  saw  him, 
shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  thought  that  perhaps  he 
was  about  to  be  arrested  again,  and  was  fleeing  from 
the  officer. 

It  was  true,  the  banking-house  was  shut !  He  tried 
the  little  private  door,  where  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
entering.     All  silent — all  fast ! 

A  mist  passed  before  his  eyes.  He  staggered,  and 
would  have  fallen,  but  for  the  wall,  against  which  he 
leaned.  Then,  after  a  few  moments,  he  went  to  the 
corner  and  got  a  newspaper.  Eagerly  turning  to  the 
money  article,  he  read  the  following  paragraph: 

"It  is  with  sincere  regret  that  we  announce  the 
stoppage,  which  took  place  yesterday,  of  the  exten- 
sive banking-house  of  Messrs.  Fisher,  Brothers  and 
Son,  of  this  city.  The  extensive  ramifications  of  this 
house  with  its  branches,  in  New  York,  New  Orleans, 
California,  and  Europe,  have  involved  it  in  the  recent 
commercial  disasters  in  California,  as  we  are  informed, 
to  the  amount  of  several  millions.  It  is  reported — 
but  upon  what  authority  we  are  unable  to  say — that 
Mr.  Henderson,  of  the  firm  of  Ira  Henderson  and 
Son,  has  been  for  several  years  the  principal  capitalist 
of  the  house  of  Fisher,  Brothers  and  Son,  and  that 
the  principal  portion  of  his  immense  fortune  was  in- 
vested in  it,  and  that  it  was  under  his  immediate 
though  secret  direction,  that  its  gigantic  operations 
20 


338  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

have  been  conducted.  It  is  said,  in  well-informed  fi- 
nancial circles,  that  the  amount  of  the  failure  will  not 
fall  much  short  of  ten  millions.  It  may  well  be  ima- 
gined that  the  unexpected  failure  of  this  house  has 
produced  the  most  intense  excitement.  We  have  seen 
nothing  like  it  since  the  failure  of  the  United  States 
Bank.  We  understand  that  Mr.  Fisher,  the  active 
head  of  the  house,  left  the  city  yesterday,  on  his  way 
to  California." 

This  brief,  dry,  but  pregnant  paragraph  told  every 
thing — Henderson  saw  it  all  at  a  glance.  Fisher,  his 
tool,  his  instrument,  his  man  of  straw,  had  taken  ad- 
vantage of  his  imprisonment  to  gather  together  the 
assets  of  the  concern,  as  far  as  pobsible,  and  abscond. 
Doubtless  he  had  been  able  to  realize  and  carry  away 
some  two  or  three  million — leaving  a  larger  amount 
of  debts  and  liabilities  behind,  for  which  Henderson's 
personal  property  w^as  responsible,  as  far  as  it  would 
go.  Here,  then,  was  ruin — utter,  complete,  irretrie- 
vable !  The  great  merchant,  the  millionaire,  the  fi- 
nancier who  had  held  the  fate  of  the  whole  mercan- 
tile community  in  his  hands — who  had  raised  and  de- 
pressed prices,  regulated  the  rates  of  interest,  and  pro- 
nounced upon  the  credit  of  others,  with  a  word — 
whose  will  was  law,  and  with  whom  even  the  banks 
themselves  grew  servile — was  a  bankrupt — a  beggar ! 
He  had  but  one  thought :  why  had  he  lived  ?  and  he 
repeated  to  himself  the  true  old  Shylock  sentiment, 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  339 

if  not  the  words,  (Jew  or  quaker,  gaberdine  or  straight 
coat,  it  is  all  the  same !) 

*'You  take  my  house,  ■when  jou  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house ;  you  take  my  life, 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live ! " 

If,  at  this  moment,  he  could  recall  every  thing  that 
had  passed  since  that  fatal  night, — if  he  could  again 
place  himself  in  prison,  with  the  destiny  of  the  Wil- 
mars,  (whom  he  now  hated  with  an  intense  hatred,) 
and  his  life,  in  his  own  hands, — he  would  gladly  do  it. 
Not  a  thought  should  falter,  not  a  muscle  quiver — all 
should  go  to  destruction  together!  He  would  die, 
mocking  and  triumphing  over  all ! 

But  now,  he  was  literally  a  beggar — an  outcast. — 
He  well  knew  that  he  was  involved  in  the  bankruptcy 
of  the  great  house — which  he  had  spent  so  many 
years  of  sleepless  days  and  nights  in  creating  and 
firmly  establishing — for  more  than  twenty  times  his 
own  private  fortune,  and  the  whole  value  of  his  legiti- 
mate business. — The  home  and  its  appointments  all 
belonged  to  his  wife,  and  the  store,  with  its  entire  re- 
sources, would  inevitably  be  seized.  He  had  just 
escaped  from  a  trial  for  murder,  in  which  his  character 
had  been  portrayed  in  a  light  so  odious  that  nothing 
but  wealth  could  gloss,  and  which,  that  once  gone, 
would  sink  him  lower  than  the  vagrants  of  the  street. 
No  one  would  give  him  employment,  even  to  earn  a 
meal — he  must  either  steal  or  starve ! 

There  was  one  escape — only  one — and  that  he  felt 


340  OUR    FIRST    FAillLlES. 

]iG  liad  the  nerve  and  con  rage  to  avail  liimsclf  c^f. 
He  pondered  for  a  long  time  for  the  best  means  of 
effecting  his  purpose — at  length,  with  a  smile  of  grim 
mockery,  he  muttered  to  himself, 

"Yes,  the  rope  is  the  best — that's  what  I  should 
have  got,  if  they  had  condemned  me.  How  the 
judges  and  jury  will  be  taken  in,  when  they  find  that, 
with  all  their  trouble  and  pains,  they  couldn't  save  me 
from  hanging !  Old  Spearbill,  too — I'll  do  hini  nicely 
— I'll  cheat  him  out  of  his  fee!"  Thus  talkincj  in- 
sanely  to  himself — all  suicides  are  insane — he  went 
towards  his  home — where,  stealing  softly  up  stairs, 
and  past  his  daughter's  chamber,  he  entered  his  own 

room,  locked  the  door,  and the  coroner's  inquest, 

the  next  day,  told  the  rest.  He  had  hung  himself  at 
the  head  of  his  bed — over  that  pillow  upon  which  all 
his  wild  and  desperate  schemes  of  fraud  and  power 
had  been  contrived.  At  last,  that  busy  and  unsleep- 
ing brain  was  still ! 

Dr.  Felton's  chaise  was  stopped  for  a  moment,  by 
the  coroner's  jury,  and  the  gathering  about  the  door 
of  Henderson's  house,  as  he  was  on  his  way  to  Dr. 
Valentine's,  where  he  had  been  summoned  in  great 
haste — the  old  valetudinarian  having  been  attacked 
with  great  violence  by  a  fit  of  gout  in  the  stomach, 
which  threatened  to  carry  him  off. 

Shocked  by  the  fate  of  Henderson,  and  mingling 
in  his  reflections  upon  it,  his  recollections  as  to  the 
symptoms  and  remedies  of  gout  in  the  stomach,  the 
good  doctor  reached  the  house  of  Mrs.  Valentine,  and 
was  shown  immediately  to  his  patient's  room. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  341 

The  paroxysm  had  passed  over,  and  the  okl  man 
lay  panting  and  exhausted.  It  was  evident  at  a  glance, 
that  his  thoroughly  worn  and  shattered  system  could 
not  survive  another  attack. 

^'Doctor,"  said  he,  in  a  faint  voice,  "I  am  glad 
you  have  come.  Lock  the  door,  and  sit  down  close 
by  me ;  I  have  an  important  secret  to  trust  you  with 
— let  no  one  else  come  near  me.  How  long  do  you 
think  it  may  be  before  the  spasm  return?  There 
will  be  but  one  more,  I  am  well  aware." 

Dr.  Felton  examined  his  patient  carefully.  "  Tell 
me  the  truth,"  said  he — "it  is  all  important." 

"It  will  not  return  before  this  evening — possibly 
not  until  to-morrow.     Have  you  taken  morphia? " 

"Yes — too  much!  I  have  been  living  on  it  for 
the  last  two  years.  I  have  just  swallowed  eighteen 
grains." 

Dr.  Felton  started.  "Eighteen  grains  of  mor- 
phia!" he  exclaimed;  "why,  it  will  kill  you  of  it- 
self!" 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  said  the  other;  "it  is 
scarcely  my  regular  daily  dose.  But  to  business. 
You  know  a  French  lady  named  Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu?  She  is  the  daughter  of  the  Count  de  Morny, 
and  the  poor  girl  that  died  in  Cherry  street — I  have 
read  all  about  it  in  the  papers — was  her  niece.  Ro- 
salie was  my  daughter  !  I  seduced  her  mother,  while 
I  was  a  student  in  the  faubourg  St.  Germain.  I 
eloped  with  her  to  London,  where  I  abandoned  her, 
and  never  heard  of  her  again.  It  seems  that  the 
29* 


342  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

poor  girl  folloTvcd  me  here,  bringing  our  child  with 
her.  Doubtless  she  died  in  despair  and  want — for 
she  would  never  have  deserted  her  child. — I  have  had 
Spearbill  with  me,  and  have  made  my  will.  I  have 
left  every  thing  to  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  in  case  her 
sister  is  not  alive.  I  wish  I  had  told  Rosalie  my  real 
name — she  might  then  have  found  me,  and  I  could, 
in  some  measure  have  atoned  for  my  crime.  But 
everything  is  now  too  late.  Here  is  the  will — take 
it  now,  for  fear  of  accidents,  and  as  soon  as  I  am 
dead,  see  it  executed.  I  do  no  wrong  to  any  one. 
My  wife's  fortune  is  ample  for  herself — I  have  no 
other  claims  upon  me. — And  now  I  come  to  the  seri- 
ous part  of  the  affair.  I  wish,  before  I  die,  to  see  the 
sister  of  Rosalie — to  beg  her  forgiveness — to  gaze 
upon  Rosalie's  picture :  I  can  then  die  in  hope  of  be- 
ing forgiven — for  I  have  deeply  and  truly  repented. 
Will  you  undertake  this  ?  " 

Dr.  Felton  took  the  paper,  and  prepared  to  go. 
"But,"  said  he,  "what  if  Mrs.  Valentine  tries  to  pre- 
vent this  meeting?" 

"  She  knows  nothing  of  these  circumstances — she 
must  not  know.  Thomas  will  watch  for  you  at  the 
door.  You  will  not  be  disturbed.  Hurry,  good  doctor 
— I  shall  not  last  long.  Tell  her  to  come  at  once — 
and  bring  the  picture.     She  must  not  refuse." 

The  doctor  waited  no  longer.  He  descended  the 
stairs,  and  found  Thomas  waiting  in  the  hall. 

"  Mrs.  Valentine  has  gone  out,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  I  will 
wait  for  you  here — my  master  has  given  me  direc- 
tions." 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  343 

Felice  was  deeply  affected  by  the  news  that  Dr. 
Valentine  was  the  seducer  of  her  sister,  and  could 
scarcely  command  herself  suiEciently  to  listen  to  the 
request  he  had  sent,  to  see  her  before  he  died.  At 
first,  she  would  have  refused ;  but  death  expiates  all 
offences,  and  her  better  nature  prevailed. 

They  found  the  old  man  sinking  fast.  He  gazed 
eagerly  at  Madame  de  Saintlieu,  and  held  out  his 
hand  for  the  picure.  Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
dumb  features  of  Rosalie,  with  a  long  and  earnest  re- 
gard, while  tears  rolled  over  his  wan  cheeks.  Then  he 
pressed  the  miniature  to  his  lips,  and  laid  it  on  his 
heart.  Then  he  signed  for  Felice  to  come  near — took 
her  hand,  and  looked  up  imploringly  into  her  eyes — 
and  so  died. 

Ma  dame  de  Saintlieu  softly  laid  down  the  hand  that 
liad  held  hers,  took  the  picture  away  from  the  still  heart 
— and  gazing  sadly  and  reverently  for  a  moment  on 
the  face  of  the  dead,  slowly  went  out. 

They  found  Thomas  at  the  door — the  faithful  and 
only  watcher  at  the  rich  man's  chamber. 

^'Is  it  all  over,  sir?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

^'  Yes,  Thomas,  all  is  over,"  the  doctor  replied.  "  Go 
in  and  watch  by  the  dead." 

The  poor  fellow  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  hand ;  and 
then,  with  a  respectful  gesture  to  the  doctor  and  his 
companion,  he  softly  opened  the  door  and  went  in — 
as  if  he  had  feared  to  disturb  his  sleeping  master! 

Do  not  fear,  faithful  and  careful  servant !  He  will 
wake  no  more ! 


344  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


FELICE  S  LETTER. 


Felice,  when  she  returned  home,  was  glad  to  find 
Captain  "Wallingford  waiting  for  her.  The  solemn 
scene  she  had  just  witnessed,  had  strengthened  her 
heart  for  the  explanation  which  she  felt  must  come, 
with  this  man,  who  had  already,  and  almost  uncon- 
sciously to  herself,  acquired  too  great  an  influence  over 
her.  The  doctor  left  her  at  the  door,  and  she  entered 
the  drawing-room,  in  a  sad  and  serious  mood,  and  with 
hesitating  steps. 

"I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  waiting  for  you,'* 
said  Wallingford ;  "I  know  I  had  scarcely  the  right 
to  take  so  great  a  liberty — but  I  w^ished  much  to  see 
you  to-day,  as  I  go  away  to-morrow." 

"Go  away!"  said  Felice,  taken  by  surprise,  and 
starting.     "  I  thought  you — that  is  " — 

''  If  I  dared  but  hope  that  you  would  rather  I  should 
not  go,  I  would  gladly  stay  all  my  life  beside  you, 
come  what  might.  But  you  turn  away — you  are  of- 
fended at  my  freedom !  But  forgive  me,  Felice — that 
is,  Madam — I  have  been  so  happy !     You  seem  some 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  345 

angel  that  has  crossed  my  way.  You  cannot  be  angry 
with  me!" 

"  Oh  no,  indeed  I  am  not  angry.  But  I  must  not 
understand  what  you  would  seem  to  say.  I  have  no 
right  to  listen  even  to  gallantries  from  you." 

"  I  protest,  madam,  it  is  no  gallantry !  If  I  were 
free  from  the  entanglements  of  youthful  folly — and  I 
will  be  free  of  them — I  would  force  you  to  hear  me 
say  that  I  love  you,  Felice,  and  that  I  lay  my  life  at 
your  feet.  But  I  will  be  free  of  all,  when  my  love 
shall  not  insult  you.  Then — then — oh,  if  I  might  but 
hope!" 

"  Forbear,  forbear !  "  exclaimed  Felice,  passionately ; 
then,  recovering  her  composure,  she  added,  in  a  firmer 
tone;  "I  can  never  listen  to  you  on  such  a  subject — 
never — never!" 

"Felice!" 

"Do  not — do  not!  let  this  end  forever  here.  Look 
at  me — convince  yourself  that  I  am  entirely  in  ear- 
nest ;  and  if  you  would  retain  my  friendship,  never 
speak  to  me  in  this  way  again." 

"  Cruel !  But  what  if  I  were  legally  and  honoura- 
bly free — would  your  reply  be  still  the  same?  " 

"  That  yoti  must  never  be — but  if  it  were  so — yes !  " 

"  Then  may  the  world  go  hang !  I  swear  by  the 
stars  that  have  so  often  piloted  me  over  the  seas,  that 
I  never  have  loved  any  human  being  but  you — you 
are  the  only  woman  worthy  the  name,  that  I  have  ever 
met.  And  you — you  care  for  me  no  more  than  for  a 
feather  on  the  tide !     I  was  a  vain,  ridiculous  fool  to 


346  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

dream  that  it  could  be  otherwise !  But  forgive  me,  if 
you  can — and  at  least  let  me  go  with  your  good  wishes 
— and  so,"  he  continued  in  a  tone  of  deep  and  sad 
feeling;  "and  so  farewell,  the  only  bright  hours  of  my 
existence — the  only  spirit  in  all  the  world  that  could 
have  won  all  my  heart's  worship,  and  made  me  worthy 
of  herself !  I'll  back  to  the  sea,  the  only  friend  that 
does  not  cast  me  off!  " 

"But  Captain  Wallingford,"  said  Felice,  still  strug- 
gling violently,  lest  some  unschooled  Wbration  of  her 
voice  should  betray  the  secret  imprisoned  and  dying 
in  her  heart;  "let  us  at  least  be  friends.  My  friend- 
ship you  have,  most  freely  and  frankly." 

"No,  no — I  will  not  accept  friendship  from  you! 
I  know  you  mean  precisely  what  you  have  said ;  that 
you  do  not  and  never  will,  love  me,  even  were  all  ob- 
stacles removed.  Your  friendship  would  be  too  dan- 
gerous— I  dare  not  trust  myself — I  should  not  keep 
to  the  contract  a  day — no,  not  an  hour!  Felice!" 
said  he,  suddenly,  changing  his  tone,  and  coming 
nearer;  "you  are  free — why  can  you  not  love  me?" 
and  he  would  have  taken  her  hand. 

But  she  drew  back,  put  her  hand  to  her  side,  as  if 
in  suffering,  and  replying  faintly,  "No  more  —  no 
more  !  I  will  tell  you  all  to-morrow  ' ' — she  disap- 
peared. 

Angry,  mortified,  and  thoroughly  bewildered,  Wal- 
lingford  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  and  then,  recover- 
ing himself  as  well  as  he  could,  went  away. 

The  next  day,  when  he  inquired  for  Madame  de 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  347 

Saintlieu,  the  servant  said  she  was  out,  but  had  left  a 
letter  for  him.  The  Captain  seized  the  letter,  has- 
tened to  his  lodgings,  tore  open  the  envelope,  and 
read — 

"  Though  we  shall  never  meet  again,  and  though  I 
have  sacrificed  the  brightest  dream  of  my  life — youi 
love — yet  I  cannot  sacrifice  your  esteem,  your  respect. 
I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  think  me   the  vain, 
trifling  coquette  that  my  conduct,  unexplained,  justi- 
fies you  in  believing  me.     Yes — I  could  have  loved 
you,  with  my  whole  soul — my  heart  sprang  to  meet 
you,  my  being  trembled  with  the  longing  desire  to  re- 
pose upon  you,  to  feel  that  I  had  a  right  to  your  pro- 
tection, your  love.     But  this  was  too  happy  a  destiny. 
There  is  one — a  tender,  gentle,  gifted  being,  who  loves 
me  with  a  life  passion — who  would  die  if  I  should 
abandon  him.     I  dare  not — for  I,  too,  love  him  !  yes, 
I  love  him — can  you  understand  that  ? — Not  as   I 
might  have  loved  you,  but  with  a  deep  tenderness,  an 
affection  that  leads  me  to  make,  unknown  to  him,  and 
to  all  but  you  and  heaven,  this  last,  supreme  sacrifice. 
His  life  is  in  my  keeping.     If  I  should  give  him  up, 
he  would  die — but  you  will  not — not  because  you  love 
me  less,  but  because  your  nature  is  stronger,  and  be- 
cause you,  like  me,  are  capable  of  sacrificing  yourself 
for  others.     Let  this  be  the  pure,  the  holy  bond  be- 
tween our  souls !     I  do  not  ask  you  to  forget  me,  I 
would  still  be  a  pleasant  memory  to  you — and  my 
heart  needs  the  strength  which  it  derives  from  be- 
lieving that  you  understand  and  sympathize  with  what 


348  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

I  have  done.     I  could  not  deprive  myself  of  this  con- 
solation. 

"And  now  for  yourself.  There  is  one,  pm^e,  inno- 
cent, overwhelmed  beneath  the  vilest  calumnies,  who 
loves  you,  even  as  he  loves  me.  I  know  that  she  is 
innocent — that  she  loves  you — that  she  is  worthy 
of  you.  I  conjure  you,  by  the  love  you  would  have 
given  to  me,  to  take  her  to  youi-  heart,  and  learn,  like 
me,  the  sublime  happiness  of  sacrifice !  So,  in  our 
noble  deeds,  shall  we  be  united,  with  a  union  that  time 
nor  death  can  sever — a  godlike  sympathy  shall  ever 
keep  our  souls  at  the  same  height,  soaring  and  sus- 
taining the  tender  beings  who  draw  their  life  from  our 
strength.  Let  us,  my  beloved,  whom  I  shall  never 
see  on  earth  again,  cheerfully  embrace  this  mutual 
hope,  this  mutual  destiny.  Let  us  be  like  those  silent 
messengers  from  land  to  land,  who  meet  at  starry 
midnight  on  the  deep ;  and,  after  lying  for  a  pleasant 
moment,  in  the  shadow  of  each  other's  wings,  with 
words  of  hope  and  comfort,  sail  on  upon  their  silent 
way. — Farewell !  "  Felice." 

Wallingford  kissed  the  letter  reverently,  and  put  it  in 
his  bosom — then  he  wiped  a  tear  from  his  eye,  sighed 
profoundly,  and  fell  into  a  long  and  gloomy  revery. 

"When  he  raised  his  head,  it  was  night.  After  get- 
ting lights,  he  wrote  a  letter,  went  down  stairs  and 
posted  it  at  the  bar,  giving  orders  to  be  called  for  the 
night  train  for  Baltimore. 

In  a  week  afterwards,  Madame  de  Saintlieu  read  in 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  349 

a  morning  paper,  a  little  paragraph,  announcing  that 
Captain  Wallingford,   of  the   United  States  frigate 

,  had  sailed  to  join  the  fleet  in  the  Mediterranean, 

being  accompanied  by  his  wife. 

She  handed  the  paper  to  Mrs.  Attarbj,  and  pointed, 
with  a  quiet  smile  of  satisfaction,  at  the  paragraph  she 
had  just  been  reading. 

"Well  and  nobly  done!"  said  Mrs.  Attarby;  "em- 
brace me,  my  sister!"  and  rising,  she  clasped  Felice 
to  her  bosom,  and  kissed  her. 

At  this  moment,  the  servant  entered  the  breakfast 
room,  where  they  were  sitting,  and  said  that  Mr.  "VVil- 
mar  had  sent  to  know  whether  Madame  de  Saintlieu 
would  see  him  for  a  single  moment. 

Felice  dried  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  replied  that 
she  would  come  down  immediately. 

"  Pooh ! — Hang  his  '  single  moments ! '  "  said  Mrs. 
Attarby,  affecting  to  be  in  a  great  rage;  "don't  I 
know  what  that  means !  I  declare,  that  boy  is-  insuf- 
ferable ! — I  am  growing  furiously  jealous  of  him ! " 


350 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


AN  INFALLIBLE  CURE  FOR  SEA-SICKNESS. 

Arachxe's  web  is  almost  woven — there  remains  but 
a  100^3  to  take  up,  here  and  there,  and  the  pattern, 
such  as  it  is,  will  be  completed.  And  first,  we  must 
go  back  to  "\Yilmar. 

From  the  last  interview  with  Madame  de  Saintlieu, 
which  we  have  described,  Arthur  saw  her  no  more. 
He  felt  conscious  that  he  had  been  deceiving  himself, 
and  perhaps  a  slight  degree  of  injustice  led  him  to  be- 
lieve that  she  had  assisted  in  that  deception.  It  was 
true,  she  had  never  said  she  loved  him — but  then  the 
intimacy  which  she  allowed — even  her  very  manner 
and  language,  while  urging  him  to  wait — were  too 
explicit  to  proceed  from  any  thing  but  love.  Yet 
now,  all  was  changed  again !  This  dreadful  stranger, 
with  his  laughing  face  and  merry  voice,  his  easy  manner, 
his  perfect  self-possession — what  would  not  the  poor, 
timid,  trembling  artist  give,  to  be  like  him !  Alas ! 
He  had  nothing  to  give — he  had  already  given  alL,  and 
found  his  gift  rejected. 

"What  is  usually  understood  in  the  world  by  jealousy 
— the  supposititious   passion  which  brawny  Othellos 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  351 

"  tear  a  cat  in  "  on  tlie  stage — or  the  watchful  jealousy 
of  hysterical  and  faded  wives,  of  every  woman  their 
husbands  may  chance  to  speak  to — and  vice  versa — 
is  either  a  coarse,  brutal  inferiority  of  nature,  which 
Bees  itself  excelled  by  every  passable  member  of  its  sex, 
or  else  a  bald,  unmitigated,  abstract  selfishness — the 
selfishness  that  produces  nothing  and  gains  nothing — 
of  the  man  who  hates  to  lend  his  neighbour  a  light,  or 
who  walls  up  his  neighbour's  chamber  window,  merely 
because  he  may  do  so  by  his  lease. 

But  there  is  a  jealousy,  springing  from  an  absorb- 
ing, life-pervading,  passion,  which,  nursed  and  cherished 
by  deceptive  hopes  and  smiles,  finds  itself  suddenly 
uprooted,  and  prostrate.  To  natures  full  of  tender- 
ness and  devotion,  and  unknowing  to  struggle  or  con- 
tend for  their  own  rights,  such  a  passion  and  such  a 
jealousy,  may  often  bring  death.  It  was  so  with 
Arthur.  Wholly  and  absorbingly  as  he  loved  Felice, 
and  necessary  to  his  very  existence  as  it  was  that  his 
love  should  be  returned,  yet  he  never  dreamed  of  a  con- 
test for  it.  I  know  not  how  to  explain  this  peculiarity 
of  a  rare  class  of  minds — but  I  know  that  it  exists. 
To  them  there  seems  something  ignoble  and  degrading 
to  enter  into  a  struggle,  a  scuffle,  a  skirmish,  to  which 
they  cannot  stoop,  even  to  attain  life's  supreme  good. 
They  will  rather  die  with  thirst,  apart,  than  rush  with 
the  herd  to  the  stream. 

Arthur  Wilmar  was  of  this  unfortunate,  though  pre- 
cious organization.  His  offering  once  laid,  humbly 
and  bashfully,  on  the  shrine,  he  would  have  foregone 


352  OUR  FIPtST  FAMILIES. 

lieaven  itself  rather  than  hold  it  up  to  catch  the  wa- 
vering eye  of  the  goddess. — The  possibility  of  rivalry, 
not  existing  in  his  own  heart,  he  could  not  understand 
it,  nor  await  its  results,  in  another.  He  did  not  choose 
to  love  Felice,  by  having  compared  her  with  others, 
and  finally  given  her  the  preference.  He  loved  her 
because  he  could  not  help  it :  she  was  the  completion 
of  himself — the  fulfilment  of  his  destiny.  When  she 
was  lost  to  him,  life  and  the  world  were  over — he  had 
no  longer  lot  or  interest  in  them. 

And  therefore  it  was,  that  he  began  speedily  to  droop 
and  fade,  even  like  his  sister,  whose  steps  already  fal- 
tered on  the  borders  of  the  grave,  and  who  waited  pa- 
tiently for  the  hour  that  was  to  give  rest  and  peace 
to  her  weary  spirit.  Dr.  Felton,  who  saw  his  beloved 
children,  as  he  regarded  them,  thus  sinking  away  from 
the  life  of  joy  and  happiness  which  had  been  so  unex- 
pectedly and  so  wonderfully  restored  to  them,  was  in 
despair.  With  the  infatuated  skepticism  of  his  logical 
profession,  he  insisted  that  the  evil  must  be  suscepti- 
ble of  some  tangible  and  scientific  remedy — at  least  in 
Arthur's  case — and  finally  persuaded  himself  that  he 
had  hit  upon  it.  Change  of  climate ! — change  of 
scene  I — that  was  the  wonderful  panacea  ! — that  would 
speedily  bring  back  health  and  strength !  And  so  it 
was  decided  that  Arthur — who  was  gentle  and  docile 
as  an  infant — should  travel.  After  mature  delibera- 
tion, the  good  doctor  fixed  upon  Italy — Palermo — as 
the  favoured  spot  whose  balmy  breezes  were  to  bring 
back  the  colour  to  the  pale  cheek,  and  the  brightness 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  853 

to  the  heavy  and  lustreless  eyes.  The  arrangements 
were  rapidly  completed ;  a  suitable  companion  had  been 
engaged — and  Arthur  was  to  go  by  the  next  steamer. 
The  night  before  his  last  day  in  his  native  land,  he 
went  for  the  last  time  to  his  writing-table,  heaped  with 
long-neglected  and  unfinished  scores,  and  snatches  of 
melodies  which  he  had  been  used  to  writing  hastily 
down  as  they  rose  in  his  brain.  He  sat  for  a  long 
time,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  now  taking  up  his 
pen,  now  laying  it  aside.  At  length,  he  seemed  to 
have  decided;  and  he  wrote  to  Felice  this  simple 
adieu : — 

"Felice — They  who  love  me,  send  me  to  die  in  Italy 
— although  they  think  I  am  there  to  find  health  and 
strength  again.  Alas  !  health  and  strength  are  no 
more  for  me — I  leave  them  with  you,  together  with  my 
love,  that  is  as  undying  as  my  immortal  soul,  aiid  will 
be  with  you  ever,  after  I  am  dead,  and  when  it  can  no 
longer  ofi*end  you.  Still  I  have  a  certain  satisfaction 
in  the  idea  of  going  to  Italy.  You  have  been  there ; 
and  I  think  it  will  be  pleasant  to  pass  away,  amid  the 
scenes  hallowed  by  your  presence,  when  you  knew  me 
not,  and  had  not  been  vexed  by  my  foolish  passion. 

"  I  have  tried  hard  to  outlive  my  love  and  my  dis- 
appointment— for  I  know  how  it  afflicts  you  to  give 
pain  to  others,  and  how  dear  I  am  to  my  sisters. 
But  I  could  not,  dear  Felice.  My  life  was  nothing 
till  I  loved  you — without  you,  it  returns  to  nothing 


30* 


354  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"Do  not  be  unhappy  on  my  account.  You  have 
done  nothing  but  good  to  me.  Could  I  have  lived 
without  the  one  supreme  blessing,  your  influence  would 
have  been  enough  to  fill  an  ordinary  life  with  happi- 
ness. To  you  I  owe  all  that  I  really  know  of  art — 
which  once  I  loved  so  well !  And  your  kindness  has 
given  me  many  happy,  oh,  fatally  happy,  houi^s! 
Farewell — forever!  I  have  tried  to  believe  that  I 
had  still  strength  and  courage  to  see  you  once  more : 
but  at  the  last  moment,  I  dare  not  venture.  May 
God  make  you  happy ! 

"Arthur." 

The  letter  is  gone.  The  final  preparations  for  the 
voyage  are  completed.  The  sisters  are  sobbing  around 
him — Dr.  Felton  is  there — the  companion  has  arrived. 
— They  are  to  go  to  New  York  by  the  five  o'clock 
train,  so  that  the  invalid  may  sleep  quietly  over  night, 
and  be  fresh  for  the  voyage.  All  is  done.  The  car- 
riage is  at  the  door.  In  another  half-hour  it  will  be 
time  to  go. 

What  is  that?  Another  carriage  drives  rapidly 
up  and  stops.  Who  is  it?  They  have  no  acquain- 
tances. What  can  it  be  ?  Arthur,  who  is  half  lying 
on  a  sofa,  has  not  heard  it.  He  is  meditating — or 
dreaming.  Suddenly  he  starts  to  his  feet  as  he  was 
wont  to  do,  in  the  good  old  days.  He  leans  forward 
to  listen.  He  has  heard  a  footstep — a  voice — that 
has  made  his  heart  leap  in  his  bosom,  with  the  old 
measure.     The  door  opens. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  355 

"Where  is  he?  Am  I  in  time?  Arthur — dear, 
dear  Arthur !  Take  me  to  your  heart — I  am  yours 
forever!" 

Ahj  doctor !  you  need  not  send  your  patient  to  Italy 
— Italy  has  come  to  him ! 

"  Proud,  obstinate,  naughty  boy !  "  she  murmurs,  as 
he  clasps  her  unchidden  to  his  breast;  "to  make  me 
throw  oiF  my  womanhood  altogether,  and  come  and 
beg  him,  thus  in  public,  to  take  me !  What  shall  we 
do  with  the  convict,  doctor?  Does  he  not  deserve 
some  dreadful  punishment  at  my  hand? " 

"  Marry  him  !"  said  the  joyous  doctor,  cutting  "a 
caper,  and  flinging  a  box  of  pills,  he  had  been  mani- 
pulating as  preventives  against  sea  sickness,  out  of  the 
window.  "  If  that  doesn't  reform  him,  he  is  incorri- 
gible." 

The  two  sisters  were  wild  :  they  snatched  Felice 
from  Arthur's  arms — they  embraced  her — they  show- 
ered upon  her  every  endearing  epithet.  She  had  saved 
their  brother — he  should  not  go  away — they  would  all 
be  so  happy ! 

"  And  now,  my  sisters — am  I  accepted  ?  and  has 
the  lonely  wanderer  found  a  home  and  kindred  at  last  ? 
— Where  is  that  other  sister,  whom  I  dared  not  come 
to  see  for  this  long,  long  time,  all  because  of  that  ty- 
rannical, despotic  Bluebeard  of  a  spoilt  child  there  !  " 

"  Nay,  there,  and  there  !  "  cried  Arthur ;  "  I'll  find 
a  way  to  stop  her  mouth —never  fear,  girls  !  " — and  so 
they  all  scampered  up  stairs,  leaving  the  doctor  and 


356  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

the  travelling  companion  alone  in  the  little  front  par- 
lour. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  doctor,  gravely,  to  the  very 
grave  and  respectable  looking  travelling  companion ; 
"we  seem  to  be  in  the  superfluous  vocative  case  here, 
just  at  present !  But  I  will  undertake  to  promise  that 
Mr.  Wilmar  shall  pay  you  a  year's  salary,  according 
to  agreement,  whether  he  goes  abroad  or  not.  For 
my  own  part,  I  shall  charge  him  a  full  fee,  whether 
he  is  carried  off  by  consumption  or  matrimony." 

And  so  it  happened  that  the  "intolerable  Mr.  Wil- 
mar,"  was  always  calling  at  Mrs.  Attarby's,  at  all 
sorts  of  unseasonable  hours,  and  asking  to  see  her 
friend  Felice,  "  only  for  a  single  moment,"  which  mo- 
ment was  often  expanded  to  hours — much  to  the  dis- 
Batisfaction  of  the  jovial  actress,  who  declared  that  she 
hoped  they  would  hasten  the  marriage  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible, if  it  were  only  that  she  might  have  Felice  all  to 
herself! 

The  sisters,  and  especially  Helen,  united  in  the  wish 
expressed  by  Mrs.  Attarby,  who  now  was  a  frequent 
visitor  at  the  "VVilmars,  that  the  marriage  should  take 
place  as  soon  as  possible ;  and  there  being  no  serious 
cause  for  postponement,  the  event  was  fixed  for  an 
early  day — which  was  announced  by  Dr.  Felton,  to 
whom  the  matter  had  been  referred,  and  with  whom 
Arthur  had  recently  held  several  long  and  mysterious 
consultations. 

A  few  days  after  the  last  of  these  "ominous  inter- 
views," as  Mrs.  Attarby  called  them,  Arthur  called  at 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  357 

her  house,  soon  after  breakfast,  and  said  he  had  come 
to  fetch  Felice  to  pay  a  visit  with  him— that  is,  if  Mrs. 
Attarby  would  consent  to  entrust  her  to  his  protection 
until  dinner,  to  which  he  had  the  honour  of  inviting 
himself. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  must  go,  my  dear,"  she  re- 
plied, making  up  a  mouth;  "but  there  is  one  satisfac- 
tion— his  tyranny  will  soon  be  over.  When  you  are 
once  fairly  married,  you  will  have  the  right  of  doing 
just  as  you  please !  " 

They  rode  through  the  pleasant  streets,  almost  in 
silence.  Each  heart  was  full  of  its  own  sensations, 
and  each  felt  that  its  happy  dreams  were  all  shared 
by  the  other.  Arthur  gazed  upon  his  fair  and  lovely 
bride,  and  had  no  need  of  v/ords. 

At  last,  they  stopped  before  a  large  and  splendid 
mansion,  surrounded  by  a  garden,  luxuriant  with  flow- 
er-beds, fruit-trees,  and  climbing  vines,  which  shielded 
the  house  from  the  noisy  street,  and  shed  a  fragrant 
silence  within  their  sacred  precincts.  They  alighted, 
and  Arthur  led  the  wondering  Felice  up  the  broad 
steps,  and  into  the  magnificent  drawing-room,  where 
were  assembled  his  sister  Kate  and  Emma,  with  Dr. 
Eelton.  She  stopped  and  looked  around  in  surprise 
— then  turned  to  Arthur,  asking  an  explanation  with 
her  eyes. 

"Welcome,  my  own  Felice!"  said  he,  taking  her 
hand,  and  leading  her  to  his  sisters ;  "  welcome  to  your 
home  !     This  is  my  father's  house !  " 

And  the  days  flew  rapidly  by — yet  the  unreasona- 


358  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

ble  Arthur  grew  impatient,  and  found  each  day  longer 
than  the  one  before;  and  Mrs.  Attarbj,  to  console 
him,  sent  him  an  almanac  ! 

Meanwhile,  the  Supreme  Court  of  good  society 
held  a  special  term,  at  which  the  case  of  "  Our  Frst 
Families  "  versus  Madame  la  Contesse  Felice  de  Saint- 
lieu,  convicted  of  being  a  French  adventurer,  and  no 
better  than  she  should  be,  was  re-opened  and  re-argued 
at  length — Mrs.  Glacee  and  Mrs.  Valentine  appearing 
for  the  defendant,  and  the  bench  rendering  a  unani- 
mous opinion  adverse  to  the  former  judgment  —  on  the 
ground  that  the  defendant  being  now  virtually  a  mem- 
ber of  one  of  "  Our  First  Families,"  her  position  in  the 
case  was  entirely  changed,  and  no  action,  conse- 
quently, would  lie. 

Miss  Jemima  Jenkins,  having  been  duly  appointed 
crier  of  this  august  tribunal,  of  course  the  news  of 
the  favourable  verdict  spread  far  and  wide,  with  a  ce- 
lerity which  would  have  put  the  fire  alarm  telegraph 
completely  in  the  shade.  In  consequence,  the  noble 
mansion  of  the  Wilmars  was  beset,  during  fashionable 
hours,  with  brilliant  equipages,  and  a  shower  of  paste- 
board congratulations  poured  upon  the  devoted  heads 
of  the  family.  Mrs.  Attarby,  too,  though  sorely 
against  her  will,  shared  in  the  fruitful  blessings  of 
this  change — as  Felice  had  resolutely  refused  to  ac- 
cept or  return  a  single  civility  or  attention,  to  which 
her  friend  was  not  a  party. 

At  length,  the  day  arrived.  Mrs.  Loftus,  who  had 
faithfully  defended  and  sustained  her  in  her  adversity. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  359 

now  rejoiced,  with  almost  a  mother's  joy,  over  her 
happiness  and  prosperity. 

The  wedding  was  a  most  brilliant  affair — the  world 
appearing  as  if  it  knew  not  how  to  do  any  thing  but 
smile,  and  striving  to  hide  its  falsehood  and  hollow 
meanness,  by  a  lavish  display  of  the  semblance  of  all 
those  high  and  sacred  offices  of  mutual  good-will, 
which  society  ought  to  render  to  its  members,  in  truth 
and  sincerity.  The  day  passed  by  in  a  dazzling 
gleam  of  brightness ;  and  poor  Felice,  bewildered  at 
this  sudden  restoration  to  all  she  had  lost,  now  made 
sweet  and  sacred  by  the  baptism  of  mutual  love,  felt 
her  heart  ache  with  its  burden  of  happiness. 

At  last,  all  were  gone — the  pageant  was  over — they 
were  alone.  Wilmar,  springing  to  the  side  of  his 
wife,  was  about  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  when  she 
took  his  hand,  and  gently  led  him  to  a  seat. 

"Arthur,  dear  husband!"  said  she;  "thus  far,  you 
have  overwhelmed  me  with  a  quick  succession  of 
happy  surprises — it  is  now  my  turn,  if  Doctor  Felton 
has  not  betrayed  me.  Let  me,  then,  hasten  to  acquit 
myself  of  a  suspicion  that  you  might  hereafter  hear, 
in  this  painted  and  false  world  that  has  just  left  us. 
I  am  not  the  poor  and  helpless  adventurer  which  I 
was,  until  a  little  while  ago.  There,  Arthur — there 
is  my  present.  Dr.  Felton  tells  me  that  I  am  very 
rich — it  is  the  will  of  Dr.  Valentine,  the  destroyer  of 
my  sister  and  her  child.  But  he  truly  repented — and 
on  his  death-bed,  he  called  me  to  him,  and  made  me 
the  inheritor  of  all  his  wealth.     Had  it  not  been  for 


360  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

this,  dear  Arthur,  the  poor  Felice  wouhl  never  have 
^vooed — for  you  did  make  me  ^yoo  you,  Arthur  ! — you 
can't  deny  it ! — the  rich  and  aristocratic  Mr.  Wihnar, 
though  she  woukl  have  borne  to  her  grave  a  grateful 
remembrance  of  the  love  of  the  poor  artist." 

"Angel!"  he  exclaimed;  "but  I  accept  this,  only 
on  one  condition." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  That  I  hold  it  in  trust  for  the  children  of  my  Fe- 
lice," said  he.  "Nay,  it  must  be  so — my  fortune," 
he  added,  kissing  Jier,  "will  be  enough,  dearest,  for 

GUI's!" 


OUE  FIRST  FAMILIES.  361 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OP  ARISTOCRACY. 

The  events  of  tlie  trial,  the  death  of  Doctor  Valen- 
tine and  Mr.  Henderson,  had  overwhelmed  at  least 
one  of  the  families  with  consternation  and  grief,  and 
sent  the  whole  fashionable  world  into  mourning.  For 
let  us  do  "our  first  families"  justice.  Though  con- 
tinually engaged  in  the  bitterest  and  most  absurd 
rivalries  among  themselves,  they  have  great  esprit  de 
corps,  and  an  injury  or  a  misfortune  from  without  in- 
flicted upon  one,  seriously  affects  all.  In  this  re- 
spect, at  least,  this  class  are  superior  to  those  below 
them ;  and  whether  it  proceeds  from  pride,  policy,  or 
actual  sympathy,  we  willingly  yield  it  our  respect. 
Besides,  the  falsehood  and  hard-heartedness  of  fashion- 
able life,  especially  amongst  the  women,  is  very  often 
but  the  effect  of  custom  and  narrow  association,  or 
perhaps  affected  altogether,  for  the  purpose  of  pre- 
serving that  appearance  of  indifference  which  with 
barbarians  and  good  society  is  alike  deemed  the  ne- 
cessary stamp  of  rank  and  position.  Even  Mrs. 
Valentine  herself  was  not  an  intrinsically  worthless 
woman,  though  reckless  and  unprincipled  in  her  plea- 
31 


362  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Bures — she  -was  only  gross,  vulgar,  and  selfish  by 
nature,  and  had  been  made  tyrannical  and  licentious 
by  the  possession  of  great  wealth  which  she  did  not 
know  how  to  use  properly,  and  the  ambition  of  gain- 
ing through  its  means  a  social  rank  to  which  she  was, 
personally,  in  no  way  entitled.  She  was  the  type  of 
a  large  and  increasing  class  in  American  society — 
vain  and  ambitious  of  distinction,  restless  under  the 
insolent  equality  insisted  upon  by  our  vulgar  and  ill- 
bred  democracy,  and  yet  possessing  no  qualifications 
except  wealth,  calculated  to  elevate  them  above  its 
loud-talking,  huge-pawed,  tobacco-chewing  level. 

No  intelligent  and  right-thinking  man  or  woman — 
and  especially  no  sensitive,  imaginative  woman — can 
be  an  advocate  of  social  democracy.  In  the  political 
arena,  they  may  do  what  they  please.  The  whole 
problem  of  politics,  laws,  government,  and  political 
institutions,  is  merely  in  a  transitional  state,  and  its 
senseless  turmoils  and  ludicrous  injustices  are  gradu- 
ally leading  to  a  state  of  things  of  which  demagogues 
and  politicians  have  no  idea..  But  private  society  is  a 
sacred  enclosure,  whose  bulwarks  and  lines  of  demark- 
ation  cannot  be  safely  broken  down.  Refinement, 
tastCy  learning,  genius,  and  those  elevated  sentiments 
and  grateful  courtesies  of  life  which  spring  from  good 
breeding,  must  ever  take  rank  above  the  ignorance, 
brutality,  and  impudent  vulgarity,  which  our  imper- 
fect civilization  imposes  upon  the  mass  of  mankind. 
Besides,  every  individual,  every  family,  in  its  per- 
sonal and  social  relations,  has  an  inalienable  right  to 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  363 

be  as  exclusive  and  as  "aristocratic,"  (since  that  is 
the  word,)  as  it  pleases.  To  break  down  the  social 
barriers  which  separate  the  different  ranks  of  society, 
is  to  abolish  refinement,  and  obliterate  all  incitements 
to  individual  chivalry  and  nobility. 

But  the  great  mistake  of  our  American  aristocracy, 
and  that  which  so  justly  consigns  it  to  the  ridicule  of 
the  whole  nation,  is,  that  it  seeks  the  justification  for 
its  pretensions  to  superiority  entirely  in  its  wealth. 
Money  is  the  one,  universal,  only  distinction.  Artists, 
philosophers,  authors,  and  men  of  genius,  if  occasion- 
ally admitted  into  our  "good  society,"  are  made  keenly 
to  feel  their  inferiority,  and  treated  with  the  contemp- 
tuous indifference  due  only  to  menials ;  so  that  no  man 
of  talent  or  genius,  who  respects  himself,  remains 
among  them,  and  they  are  reduced  to  the  dreary  alter- 
native of  their  own  dulness  and  stupidity,  enlivened 
and  embittered  by  rival  waste  and  extravagance,  and 
by  that  vulgarity  of  exclusiveness, — scandal. 

Now  of  all  the  many  things  that  have  been,  or  may 
be,  made  use  of  as  the  test  of  social  distinction,  wealth 
is  the  very  last  which  should  have  been  adopted  in 
this  country,  where  the  law  of  primogeniture  does  not 
exist,  where  property  is  seldom  made  hereditary  by 
will,  and  still  more  seldom  retained  in  the  same  family 
after  the  second  generation;  where  the  son  of  the 
tailor  of  one  generation,  becomes  the  nabob  of  the 
brokers'  board  in  the  next,  and  the  poor  girl  who 
earned  a  miserable  subsistence  in  a  garret  until  she 
was  twenty,  becomes  the  lady  patroness  of  the  Italian 


364  OUR   FIRST    FAMILIES. 

opera,  in  after  life,  and  wears  the  brilliant  dresses  and 
magnificent  opera  cloaks  which  she  used  but  to  stitch 
to2:ether.  Nor  are  these  illustrations  .taken  at  ran- 
dom ;  they  are  the  epitome  of  well  known  personal 
histories.  In  an  exclusive  class  of  society,  formed  of 
such  materials,  it  would  be  absurd  to  expect  to  find 
any  of  those  elements,  as  a  general  thing,  which  can 
alone  make  the  existence  of  social  superiority  respect- 
able, or  even  tolerable,  in  a  country  politically  free. 
Aristocracy  is  not  a  mere  name — it  is  a  fact.  It  has 
existed,  and  has  been  more  or  less  respected,  beloved, 
or  despised,  from  the  very  commencement  of  civiliza- 
tion, according  as  its  members  have  been  endowed 
with  those  qualities  which  are  its  very  essence  and  life 
— personal  chivalry,  courage,  and  honour ;  enlightened 
patronage  of  virtue,  art,  and  literature;  generosity, 
magnanimity,  and  lofty  self-denial.  And  in  those 
countries  where  aristocracy  exists  as  a  hereditary  in- 
stitution, its  power  and  respectability  have  invariably 
decreased  as  these  high  qualities  have  become  extinct. 
The  gradual  corruption  and  deterioration  in  the  per- 
sonal character  of  the  members  of  the  old  French 
aristocracy,  finally  brought  it  to  contempt  and  ex- 
tinction, at  the  close  of  the  last  century;  the  same 
causes  are  at  work,  and  will  inevitably  produce  a  simi- 
lar result  in  England  before  the  present  has  run  out. 
But  aristocracy,  in  fact,  is  a  class  superior  to  the  mass 
of  society — is  a  component  part  of  civilization  itself; 
h  has  existed  since  this  phase  of  human  development 
was   inaugurated,  and  will  only  disappear  when  man- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  365 

kind  passes  into  a  new  and  totally  different  mode  of 
being,  until  civilization  itself,  as  barbarism  and  patri- 
archism  have  already  done,  has  accomplished  its  des- 
tiny, and  become  extinguished,  and  the  human  family 
passes  to — what  ?  Ask  the  Fourierists,  or  the  Spirit- 
rappers. 

But  our  American  aristocracy  has  the  misfortune  of 
having  commenced  its  career  at  the  insignificant  and 
contemptible  end — at  the  phase  of  death,  instead  of 
birth.  Having  broken  away,  politically,  from  all 
European  models  and  experiences,  we  have  been  con- 
tent to  remain  the  servile  copyists  of  Europe,  in  every 
thing  else.  Our  aristocracy  has  begun,  where  the 
aristocracies  of  the  old  world  are  just  about  to  leave 
off — petulant,  nairow,  selfish,  mean  and  extravagant 
— destitute  of  real  superiority  of  character  or  endow- 
ment, and  relying  solely  upon  money,  and  an  emula- 
tion of  material  ostentation,  whose  only  and  inevitable 
end  is  bankruptcy,  fraud,  ruin,  and  the  ridicule  and 
contempt  of  the  people. 

Yet  aristocracy  is  as  proper  to  a  republic,  as  to  a 
monarchy,  an  empire,  or  a  despotism. — Nay,  an  aristo- 
cracy of  the  right  kind  would  perhaps  play  a  more 
important  and  beneficent  part  in  a  republic,  than  in 
any  other  form  of  government.  The  great  problem 
is,  to  unite  the  minds  and  hearts  of  superior  virtue 
and  superior  genius,  with  the  wealth  which  can  alone 
give  vitality  and  effect  to  their  inspirations.  As  it  is, 
things  are  notoriously  and  laughably  the  reverse  of 
this.  If  you  were  called  upon  to  make  up  a  dele- 
31* 


366  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

gation  of  tlie  talent,  learning,  genius  and  virtue,  of 
tlie  country,  you  would  no  more  dream  of  making 
your  selections  from  the  soi  disant  "  aristocracy,"  than 
you  would  think  of  choosing  a  representation  of  our 
material  greatness  and  wealth,  from  among  the  men 
of  genius  and  intellectual  or  personal  distinction. 
Never  were  the  two  elements  of  material  and  moral 
superiority  so  widely  separated,  as  in  this  country. — 
Our  aristocracy,  as  a  general  fact,  have  not  even  good 
taste,  good  breeding,  or  good  manners.  They  dress 
badly — they  speak  badly — they  eat,  di'ink,  and  sleep, 
badl}^ — the  women,  for  the  most  part,  have  coarse  fea- 
tures, flat  feet,  and  vulgar  hands.  They  wear  gaudy 
dresses — they  talk  loudly,  and  giggle,  and  affect  false 
modesty,  in  public — they  are  fond  of  slang,  scandal, 
and  low  literature — they  are  rude  and  insolent  to 
their  inferiors,  and  mean  and  oppressive  to  their  do- 
mestics. They  always  take  pains  to  assert  them- 
selves, which  a  truly  high-bred  person  never  does,  ex- 
cept by  the  unconscious  quietness  of  his  dress,  appear- 
ance, language,  and  manner — and  they  exhaust  their 
lives  and  fortunes  in  ridiculous  attempts  to  out-dress, 
out-furnish,  out-build,  and  out-shine,  one  another.  In 
a  word,  that  which  passes  itself  off  as  the  Aristocracy 
of  this  country,  would  be  deemed  only  the  Snobbery 
of  another.  Go  to  Washington  in  winter — to  Sara- 
toga in  summer — or  look  in,  at  any  time,  at  a  fashion- 
able hotel  or  an  "exclusive"  party — see  the  airs,  the 
pretensions,  the  grimaces — listen  to  the  subjects  of 
conversation,  and  tlie  tone  of  voice,  the  lajiguage,  and 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  367 

the  manner  in  wliich  they  are  treated — criticise  the 
dresses,  the  license  of  talk  among  the  young  men  and 
women,  the  loud  laughing,  the  squirming,  and  perpe- 
tual giggling — study  the  manners,  and  measure  the 
personal  accomplishments,  of  ^the  company — and  you 
would  think  that  Chawls  Yellowplush  and  Measter 
Jeames  had  marshalled  forth  the  hosts  of  high  life  be- 
low stairs,  for  a  grand  holiday.  I  declare  that  the  last 
time  I  was  at  Saratoga,  I  saw  the  veritable  ''  aristo- 
cracy" of  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  at  the  U 

Hotel,  dance  the  can-can^  as  "the  latest  fashion- 


able dance  from  Paris,"  with  all  its  licentious  and  ob- 
scene movements  and  postures,  as  practised  at  the 
termination  of  a  fete  at  the  Mahille  and  Chateau 
Rouge!  There  was  an  Italian  barber,  who,  being 
"  driven  from  his  country  on  account  of  his  political 
opinions!"  had  turned  Parisian  dancing-master,  and 
established  himself  at  Saratoga,  over  a  ten-pin  alley, 
I  believe — or  a  church.  His  "exclusive"  customers 
had  besought  him  for  something  new  and  startling — 
some  dance  that  the  common  people  did  not  know. 
After  a  good  deal  of  reflection,  he  was  inspired  with 
that  sublime  audacity  which  ever  accompanies  genius 
— and  taught  them  the  can-can!  The  "exclusive" 
young  ladies  and  their  slim-legged  "beaux  "  embraced 
it  and  each  other  with  enthusiasm — the  mammas  stared 
and  chuckled  with  delight.  It  was  a  decided  hit — 
the  can-can  was  all  the  rage — and  the  fortune  of  the 
lucky  dancing-master  was  made ! 


368  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

And  so, — having  disposed  of  the  subordinate  cha- 
racters in  our  story — who,  we  fear,  have  little  be- 
sides devotion,  truth,  and  genius,  to  recommend  them 
— we  will  once  more  return  to  the  sacred  precincts  of 
good  society,  and  follow  out  the  fortunes  of  our  first 
families. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  369 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


GATHERING  UP  THE  THREADS. 


Our  "  exclusive  "  readers  will  of  course  have  done  us 
the  honour  to  have  long  ago  discovered,  that  the  real 
heroine  of  our  story  was  the  wealthy  and  aristocratic 
young  heiress,  Miss  Sarah  Henderson.  It  is  true,  that, 
in  order  to  get  through  with  the  more  common-place 
incidents  of  the  narrative,  and  to  dispose  of  the  low 
artists,  doctors,  sea-captains,  and  home-loving  Wilmar 
girls,  our  real  heroine,  and  her  shadow,  that  eccentric 
and  terribly  aristocratic  quakeress.  Miss  Jemima  Jen- 
kins, have  been  kept  too  much  in  the  back-ground. 
The  field,  however,  is  at  last  clear — Madame  de  Saint- 
lieu  has  gone  off  with  her  young  husband,  to  attend 
the  conservatoire  in  Paris,  and  the  San  Carlos  at 
Naples.  Captain  Wallingford,  reconciled  to  his  spiri- 
tuelle  and  coquettish  little  wife,  who  always  in  her 
heart  dearly  loved  him,  although  her  innate  love  of 
fun  and  mischief  had  led  her  into  sundry  awkward 
but  innocent  indiscretions,  has  taken  her  on  board  his 
beautiful  ship  of  war,  the  Sea-Hawk,  and  gallantly 
sailed  down  the  Chesapeake,  out  at  Hampton  roads, 


370  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

and  away  over  tlic  Atlantic,  to  his  station  in  the  Me- 
diterranean. 

Mrs.  Loftus,  after  taking  leave  of  Felice,  with  as 
much  affection  as  if  she  really  had  been  her  ovm 
daughter — hugging  the  two  little  girls  to  her  heart, 
and  giving  the  blushing  and  happy  Wilmar  a  rigorous 
lecture  on  his  duties  as  a  husband  and  a  father — sat 
herself  down  alone  and  disconsolate  in  her  stately  old 
house,  and  for  several  days  gave  herself  up  to  solitude 
and  melancholy. — Then,  with  a  sigh  and  a  rigid  com- 
pression of  her  lips,  she  resolutely  paid  her  few  debts 
and  visits,  broke  up  her  lonely  establishment,  and  went 
to  establish  herself  in  a  convent  at  Cincinnati,  where 
the  principal  of  which  was  a  friend  of  her  childhood, 
and  with  whom  she  had  long  intended  to  seek  a  peace- 
ful asylum  from  a  society  she  despised,  and  a  world 
with  which  her  earthly  sympathies  were  now  lost. 

Poor  Helen  Wilmar,  stricken  to  the  heart  through 
her  affections,  felt  that  the  blow  was  mortal.  Even 
could  she  have  forgiven  her  lover  for  his  black  infi- 
delity, and  the  unmitigated  turpitude  of  his  conduct, 
it  was  impossible  that  she  could  give  her  hand  to  the 
destroyer  of  a  pure  and  confiding  girl,  the  relative  of 
a  noble  creature  who  was  now  her  brother's  wife,  her 
own  beloved  and  idolized  sister.  Besides,  although 
she  did  truely  and  sincerely  forgive  Edward,  and  wish 
him  all  the  happiness  of  which  he  had  forever  deprived 
her,  her  pure  and  sensitive  soul  could  never  have  suf- 
fered the  contact  of  such  a  nature  as  Edward  had  proved 
himself  to  possess.    The  Edward  Ingraham  she  had  so 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  371 

fondly  and  fervently  loved — for  whose  love  she  was 
about  to  die — existed  no  longer.  He  was  a  sacred 
memory  concealed  in  her  heart,  which  she  would  take 
with  her  to  heaven,  where  in  the  infinity  of  perfected 
existences,  every  ideal  finds  its  realization  and  embodi- 
ment— where  some  spirit,  corresponding  in  all  things 
to  her  Edward,  already  stood  waiting  to  receive  and 
bless  her. 

Still  she  bore  up  bravely — she  would  not  damp  the 
glowing  happiness  of  her  brother  and  his  bride.  Her 
cheerful  smiles  and  gay  congratulations-mingled  some- 
times even  with  flashes  of  her  old  playfulness  and  hu- 
mour— deceived  the  watchful  eyes  of  afiection;  and 
both  Arthur  and  Felice,  as  they  embraced  her  for  the 
last  time,  whispered,  with  a  newly-founded  hope,  that 
in  a  few  months  they  should  return  and  find  her  well 
and  happy.  Dr.  Felton,  who  was  very  busy  rubbing 
the  glasses  of  his  spectacles,  which  had  somehow  been 
unaccountably  dim,  all  the  morning,  God-blessed  them 
all,  over  and  over  again,  and  in  reply  to  the  entreaties 
of  Wilmar  that  he  should  look  paternally  after  his 
sisters,  said, 

"  Don't  bother  yourself,  young  man — attend  to  your 
own  family  afiairs,  if  you  please,  and  let  other  people's 
alone.  I  intend  to  marry  Kate,  myself,  long  before 
you  get  back, — and  as  for  little  Helen  here,  we'll  have 
the  colour  all  back  in  her  cheeks  again,  won't  we 
child  ?  There,  there ! — Have  done  with  your  kissing 
and  be  off,  or  you  will  be  too  late  for  the  train.  By 
the  way,  Arthur,  you  have  forgotten  the  young  man 


372  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

who  was  to  go  with  you  to  Europe  as  your  '  companion,* 
you  know?  " 

"Oh,"  said  Arthur,  turning  to  Felice,  with  a  bright 
glow  of  happiness  suffusing  his  face;  "I  have  engaged 
a  companion  for  the  voyage 

"  Of  life !  "  mui-mured  Felice,  laying  her  head  on  her 
husband's  shoulder,  and  taking  the  doctor's  hand  and 
kissing  it.  And  so  they  went,  and  Helen  and  Kate, 
with  the  good  doctor,  who  came  every  day  to  see  them, 
were  left  alone. 

The  position  of  Mrs.  Attarby  had,  as  yet,  undergone 
no  material  change.  Although  she  had  not  the  slight- 
est intention  or  desire  of  retaining  her  married  state, 
yet  she  was  determined  that  the  divorce  should  take 
place  in  her  own  way,  or  at  all  events,  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  that  it  should  not  leave  her  reputation  any  more 
seriously  compromised  than  that  of  her  husband  him- 
self. She,  therefore,  immediately  commenced  a  cross 
action  against  him,  for  divorce.  The  case  was  thus 
taken  from  the  legislature  and  thrown  into  the  courts, 
where  it  might  remain  suspended  for  years.  Mean- 
while, Mrs.  Attarby,  in  no  way  disconcerted,  but  as 
haughty  and  independent  as  ever,  went  on  in  her  usual 
way  of  life ;  and  after  taking  a  cordial  leave  of  Felice, 
for  whom  she  had  conceived  a  profound  attachment, 
promised  to  meet  her,  in  a  few  months,  in  Europe. 

At  the  house  of  Mrs.  Valentine,  neither  the  events 
of  the  trial,  nor  the  death  of  the  doctor,  had  made  any 
perceptible  change,  except  the  temporary  suspension 
of  the  lady's  regular  "  Wednesdays,"  and  the  adoption 


OUE  FIRST  FAMILIES.  373 

of  the  prescribed  mourning,  with  all  the  established 
details,  in  Mrs.  Valentine's  dress,  note-paper,  sealing- 
wax,  &c. 

Edward  continued  to  occupy  his  old  apartment  in 
the  house  of  his  aunt.  But  his  habits  had  undergone 
a  great  change,  since  the  trial  of  himself  and  Ira  Hen- 
derson for  the  murder  of  poor  Rosalie.  He  was  seldom 
seen  in  the  street;  and,  whether  from  shame  or  re- 
pentance, he  carefully  avoided  all  those  public  haunts 
of  dissipation,  where  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meet- 
ing his  dissolute  companions.  His  appearance,  too, 
was  greatly  changed.  His  face  was  thinner,  and  his 
cheeks  almost  haggard.  He  walked  slowly,  with  his 
head  bowed  down,  apparently  absorbed  in  serious 
thought.  The  demijohn  had  been  banished  from  his 
chamber ;  and  his  aunt,  who  one  morning  paid  him  a 
visit  unannounced,  found  him  busily  reading. 

"Why,  cousin,"  said  she,  ''reading!  What  can 
be  the  matter  with  you?  I  don't  remember  ever  to 
have  found  you  at  that  before.  What  has  come  over 
you?" 

"  So  much  the  worse,  aunt,"  said  Ingraham,  gravely, 
looking  up  with  something  like  impatience,  and  slightly 
emphasizing  the  "aunt,"  as  if  to  remind  her  of  the 
real  nature  of  their  relationship.  "But  I  beg  pardon 
— pray  be  seated.  If  I  had  known  of  your  visit,  I 
should  not  have  been  found  in  my  dressing-gown." 

"  Good  gracious,  how  ceremonious  we  are !     Why, 
Edward,  one  would  suppose  that  we  were  acquaintances 
of  a  week's  standing  !    Do  you  think  that  recent  events 
32 


374  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

have  made  any  change  in  my  feelings  ?  If  you  do, 
you  are  mistaken." 

"  But  they  have  in  mine,  aunt.  I  have  had  a  terrible 
lesson;  and  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  my  cell,  I 
was  compelled,  whether  I  would  or  no,  to  sternly  re- 
view my  past  life.  I  have  not  only  been  very  wicked, 
but  a  very  great  fool.  Having  every  thing  at  my  com- 
mand to  make  myself  and  others  happy,  I  have  lite- 
rally thrown  away  the  best  part  of  my  life.  I  never 
had  but  one  real,  sincere  sentiment,  and  that  was  my 
love  for  Helen  Wilmar.  If  I  had  been  permitted  to 
marry  her,  I  should  have  made  her  happy,  and  been 
myself  of  some  use  and  consideration  in  the  world — 
for  I  am  not  wholly  destitute  of  good  impulses  and 
powers  by  nature.  I  only  wanted  guidance  and  en- 
couragement." 

"Why,  cousin,  I  declare  you  preach  like  a  parson !  " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Valentine,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  auntj"  replied  Edward,  with 
increased  gravity.  "You  have  sought  this  interview, 
and  must  now  hear  me — perhaps  better  now  than  at 
another  time.  I  say,  if  I  had  married  Helen,  whom  I 
loved,  and  whose  heart  I  broke  by  casting  her  off,  I 
should  have  been  a  different  being.  And  it  was  en- 
tirely through  you  that  I  did  give  her  up.  What  did 
I  care  about  her  loss  of  fortune  ?  Had  I  not  enough 
and  abundance  for  both?  But — the  truth  must  be 
told,  aunt,  though  I  shudder  with  shame  and  remorse 
as  I  utter  it :  you  broke  off  my  marriage  for  your  own 
purposes — you  wanted  to  retain  me  for " 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  375 

"Boy!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Valentine,  rising  up  and 
speaking  in  a  hoarse,  fierce  tone,  her  lips  white  with 
anger;  "dare  you  remind  me — dare  you  accuse  me! 
Beware,  or  I  w^ill  crush  you  into  the  earth! " 

"My  own  actions  have  already  laid  me  there,"  re- 
plied Ingraham,  calmly  and  sorrowfully.  "I  do  not 
accuse  you,  I  only  tell  you  the  truth:  nor  do  I  fear 
you,  for  I  have  devoted  the  rest  of  my  life  to  the  at- 
tempt to  retrieve  myself,  and  save  the  little  good  that 
may  yet  be  in  me.  I  have  already  written  a  sincerely 
humble,  but  frank  and  honest,  letter  to  Helen  Wilmar, 
and  begged  that  she  would  believe  in  my  repentance, 
and  permit  me  to  hope,  by  a  long  probation,  to  become 
worthy  of  her  affection." 

"You  have  not  really  done  that?  You  would  not 
thus  humiliate  yourself?  You  would  not  marry  that 
girl?  "  cried  Mrs.  Valentine,  coming  up  to  her  nephew, 
seizing  him  violently  by  the  arm,  and  gazing  with  fury 
at  him. 

"  I  have  !  I  would !  "  replied  he,  smiling  faintly  at 
the  pain  of  her  gripe  upon  his  arm ;  "joyfully  would 
I  devote  my  life  to  the  happiness  of  that  dear  and  ex- 
quisite woman." 

"I'll  kill  her!"  hissed  his  aunt,  through  her  set 
teeth. 

"  It  will  not  be  necessary,"  said  Ingraham,  bitterly; 
"it  is  now  several  days  since  I  wrote,  and  I  have  re- 
ceived no  notice  of  my  letter.  ISo — how  could  I  ex- 
pect it?  She  justly  scorns  me,  and  treats  me  as  an 
outlaw  from  society  and  mankind." 


6ib  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

''  Oh,  she  doesn't  want  jou  now !  "  said  Mrs.  Valen- 
tine, who,  ashamed  of  her  violence,  had  assumed  a  tone 
of  irony ;  "  she  has  got  her  fortune  back,  and  can  pick 
and  choose." 

""What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know  that  the  Wilmars  were 
cheated  out  of  their  property  by  old  Henderson,  and 
that  Dr.  Felton  made  it  as  a  condition,  before  he  would 
let  Helen  come  into  court,  that  it  should  be  all  restored 
to  them  ?  Oh,  ho !  So  you  thought  that  innocent 
young  lady  came  all  the  way  to  the  trial,  to  save  your 
life?  Not  a  bit  of  it — it  was  for  the  money — the 
money — nothing  less!  And  how  came  she  in  that 
house,  I  wonder !  I  don't  believe  any  more  of  her 
fine  story  than  I  choose !  " 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  Ingraham,  sinking  back  in 
his  chair  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands ;  "  and 
I  did  not  know  this,  and  have  put  myself  in  the  atti- 
tude of  having  returned  to  her  at  the  same  moment 
with  her  fortune !  "What  a  mean  scoundrel  she  must 
think  me!" 

"  Oh,  never  despair,  nephew T'  said  Mrs.  Valentine, 
spitefully ;  "  there  are  plenty  of  rich  young  ladies  who 
won't  object,  I  dare  say,  to — to — take  you  off  my 
hands  !  Ha !  ha !  A  capital  joke !  Why  don't  you 
go  and  make  love  to  poor  little  Sarah  Henderson, 
whose  father  has  hung  himself  to  the  bed-post,  and 
left  his  little  daughter  without  a  penny  ? — There's  a 
chance  for  your  philanthropy.  Good  morning,  Mr. 
Ingraham !  "  And,  with  a  look  of  hatred  and  revenge, 
slie  left  the  room. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  377 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


WOMEN,     CATS,    AND    PUPPIES. 

We  must  now  take  a  glance  at  the  position  of  the 
family  of  the  Hendersons.  At  first,  astounded  and 
dismayed  at  the  exposure  of  the  crimes  of  its  head, 
its  members  and  friends  had  been  completely  stunned 
by  the  subsequent  loss  of  fortune,  and  suicide  of  the 
criminal. 

But  the  Hendersons  had  greater  pretensions  than 
the  upstart  aristocracy  who  surrounded  and  toadied 
them.  Their  virtue  was  pride.  They  possessed,  in 
their  history  and  antecedents,  something  like  the^re- 
stige  of  birth  and  blood.  The  family,  which  was 
amongst  the  first  colonists  and  companions  of  William 
Penn,  had  always  occupied  a  commanding  position, 
both  in  wealth  and  influence.  They  were,  too,  much 
more  austere  and  precise,  in  morals  and  manners,  than 
is  exacted  by  good  society.  They  affected  a  pious 
horror  at  the  levity,  the  extravagance,  the  immorali- 
ties, of  the  fashionable  world,  and  looked  down  upon 
them  with  a  severe  pity.  The  blow  that  struck  them 
from  their  pedestal,  and  revealed  the  pitiless  and  stern 

32* 


378  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

quaker  patriarch,  Ira  Henderson,  as  a  swindler,  a  de- 
bauchee, and  a  suicide,  was  a  terrible  one,  and  swept 
the  whole  family  before  it.  There  was  not  one  of 
their  associates  who  had  not,  at  some  time,  been  the 
victim  of  their  haughty  pride  and  insolence,  and  now 
rejoiced  in  their  fall.  They  had  no  sympathy  in  their 
sufferings  to  expect  from  any  one. 

But  pride  is,  at  least,  its  own  supporter,  and  knows 
how,  even  in  falling,  to  disappoint  and  punish  those 
it  hates.  Mrs.  Henderson  did  not  complain — sought 
no  consolation — did  not  even  seclude  herself,  as  if  dis- 
abled by  the  blow  she  had  received.  She  had  gone 
through  the  trying  scenes  and  humiliations  incident  to 
the  bankruptcy  and  suicide  of  her  husband  without 
flinching.  She  was  still  the  superior  of  those  who 
were  dying  for  a  chance  to  sneer  at  or  contemn  her. 

Immediately  upon  the  promulgation  of  the  suicide, 
Miss  Jenkins  had  hastened  to  her  relative,  to  offer  her 
condolences,  as  a  member  of  the  afflicted  family — and 
to  ask  her  aunt's  advice  as  to  the  style  of  mourning- 
dress  that  would  best  become  her  face  and  figure. 

"My  dear  aunt,"  she  exclaimed,  rushing  up  to  Mrs. 
Henderson  with  an  effusion  of  grief  and  sympathy; 
"  how  horrible  it  all  is !  and  how  dreadfully  you  must 
have  suffered!  " 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  Jemima,"  said  Mrs. 
Henderson,  drawing  herself  up  with  dignity,  and 
pointing  to  a  chair.  "I  have  done  nothing — nothing 
has  happened  to  me — I  do  not  suffer !  " 

"  Then  it  isn't  true !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jenkins,  with 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  379 

an  expression  ruefully  compounded  of  relief  and  dis- 
appointment; "then  the  bankruptcy,  the  suicide,  is 
all" 

"Jemima!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Henderson,  in  her 
most  severe  and  stately  manner;  "since  you  have 
called,  I  shall  make  you  acquainted  with  the  disa- 
greeable events  that  have  occurred.  Mr.  Henderson, 
driven  into  a  fever  by  the  accusations  and  conspiracy 
of  Miss  Wilmar  and  others  against  his  life  and  pro- 
perty,— aggravated  by  the  elopement  of  his  cashier 
with  a  large  amount  of  funds,  and  the  closing  of  his 
store, — in  a  fit  of  delirium  committed  suicide.  This 
is  the  whole.  It  is  a  severe  dispensation  of  provi- 
dence, to  which  I  hope  my  daughter  and  myself  know 
how  to  submit  with  becoming  humility.  At  all  events, 
we  seek  no  human  sympathy." 

"Humph!"  muttered  the  disappointed  gossip  to 
herself,  as  she  flung  herself  out  of  the  room;  "as 
proud  and  obstinate  an  old  fool  as  ever !  I'll  go  and 
find  Sarah — she,  I'm  sure,  must  be  more  tractable." 

Sarah  was  sitting  in  her  little  bed-room,  disconso- 
late and  weeping  Her  swollen  eyelids  and  the  wa- 
vering glance  of  the  eyes  showed  that  she  had  been 
for  a  long  time  without  sleep.  Her  dress  was  in  dis- 
order, and  her  hair  hung  loosely  over  her  neck  and 
shoulders.     She  looked  up  as  Jemima  came  in. 

"Oh,  cousin  Jemima!"  said  she,  running  and 
throwing  herself  into  her  arms;  "welcome!  welcome! 
You  do  not  know  how  miserable  I  am !  " 

"Yes,  yes,  my  love,  it  is  very  dreadful,  no  doubt, 


380  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

and  I  came  immediately  to  mingle  my  tears  with 
yours.  Our  young  and  bereaved  hearts  are  sadly  in 
need  of  consolation.  Suicide — how  horrible !  how  in- 
teresting ! " 

"It  is  not  that,"  said  Sarah,  with  a  deep  flush; 
"  though  my  father's  terrible  death  is  enough  to  appal 
any  one.  But  I  have  a  sorrow  that  makes  even  that 
forgotten.  Oh,  cousin,  I  must  tell  you  or  my  poor 
heart  will  break." 

"Yes,  yes,  what  is  it,  my  love?"  exclaimed  the 
gossip,  sitting  down  and  arranging  herself  for  a  con- 
fidential interview.  "  Come  now,  tell  me  all  about  it ; 
you  know  you  can  confide  in  your  Jemima ! " 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,  after  all,"  said  the  poor 
girl,  trying  to  suppress  her  tears ;  "but  I  did  love  him, 
cousin  !  and  now  he  is  going  to  marry  that  Madame 
de  Saintlieu!  How  ungrateful!  He  knew  I  loved 
him!" 

"  Oh,  is  that  it?  Yes,  that  would  have  been  a  fine 
match,  now  that  you  have  lost  your  fortune,  and  Wil- 
mar  has  got  his — it  would  have  kept  it  all  in  the  fa- 
mily !  But  courage,  child !  There  are  as  good  fish 
in  the  sea  as  ever  was  caught." 

"Oh,  it  is  all  over  with  me — I  shall  never  love 
again !     I  wish  I  was  dead !  " 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  kind-hearted  Jemima,  sooth- 
ingly, and  drawing  the  poor  girl's  head  upon  her  bo- 
som. "  There !  take  courage !  You  will  forget  all 
this  in  a  little  while,  and  be  as  happy  as  ever.  "Why, 
I  have  had  my  heart  broken  at  least  half-a  dozen 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  381 

times — and  yet  I  am  not  a  grain  the  worse  of  it! 
Do  you  see  the  least  sign  of  a  wrinkle  in  my  forehead  ? 
No ! — Well,  there  isn't  one  in  my  heart.  No,  never 
shall  the  rosy  god  plough  one  in  either.  Love,  my 
dear,  is  a  disease  to  which  young  ladies  are  subject — 
like  the  hooping-cough  and  the  scarlet  fever.  One 
must  have  it — the  only  difference  is,  that  one  is  liable 
to  have  it  more  than  once — heigho ! " 

"  Oh,  but  cousin,  you  have  never  loved  as  I  loved 
Arthur — I  mean,  Mr.  "VYilmar !  "  said  Sarah,  blush- 
ing and  hiding  her  face  on  Jemima's  bosom,  whose 
stiff-starched  ruffles  scratched  her  face  terribly. 

'' That's  what  every  one  thinks,  pet — just  what  I 
used  to  think  myself.  But  would  you  like  to  be  cured 
of  this  love  for  Mr.  Wilmar? " 

"Not — till — he  is — married!"  sobbed  poor  Sarah. 
"I  shall  never  be  cured  of  it,  cousin — ^never !  " 

"  That  means,  not  for  two  whole  months  !  "  replied 
Jemima,  laughing.  "I  know  all  about  it;  six  weeks 
is  the  regular  period  for  the  disease  to  run  its  course. 
But  come,  dry  your  eyes,  and  let  us  talk  sensibly. — I 
saw  Mrs.  Valentine  yesterday — such  sweet  mourning 
as  she  has  got  for  her  dear  dead  husband !  And  she 
told  me  a  great  secret,  which  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
— all  in  strict  confidence,  you  know !  It  seems  that 
her  nephew,  Edward  Ingraham,  is  dying  for  love  of  a 
disdainful  little  beauty  named  Sarah,  who  has  hereto- 
fore refused  to  give  him.  the  least  encouragement. 
Now  I  have  promised  to  see  this  perverse  beauty,  and 


382  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

talk  tlie  matter  over  with  lier.  Don't  you  think,  now, 
seriously,  that  Mr.  Ingraham  is  very  handsome?" 

"  How  can  you  talk  so,  cousin !  What  is  Mr.  In- 
graham to  me  ?  Was  he  not  engaged  to  Helen  Wilmar, 
and  did  he  not  give  her  up  because  she  lost  her  for- 
tune? And  then  that  poor  girl  that  killed  herself! 
How  shocking! " 

And  yet,  even  at  this  very  moment,  in  the  dephth 
of  her  despair,  the  idea  that  she  was  beloved  by  an- 
other, flattered  the  vanity  and  soothed  the  sorrow  of 
the  weak-minded  girl.  Oh,  invaluable  panacea  of  dis- 
appointed affection  !  thou  tincture  of  arnica  for  bruised 
hearts !  thou  magical  pain  extractor  of  unrequited  love 
— Substitution !  What  miracles  of  cures  dost  thou  not 
effect !  The  maternal  hen,  clucking  disconsolately  for 
her  chickens,  ruthlessly  ravished  from  under  her  pro- 
tecting wing,  to  serve  the  exigencies  of  the  family  pot- 
pie,  accepts  with  resignation  a  family  of  orphaned 
ducklings,  and  even  tries  to  learn  to  swim,  in  order  to 
follow  her  adventurous  family  across  the  farm-yard 
pond  !  The  sheep  stills  her  bleating  for  her  lost  young, 
if  another  hungry  and  frisky  youngster  of  the  flock, 
supplies  his  place.  The  watchful  cat,  stealing  from 
the  brook-bank,  where  she  has  seen  all  her  little  ones 
sink  to  rise  no  more,  will  console  her  bereaved  affec- 
tions with  the  first  puppy  placed  under  her  charge. 
They  say  that  women  in  general  resemble  cats.  ^Ve 
know  not  how  that  is — but  it  is  indubitable  that  many 
a  one  has  consented  to  console  herself,  like  the  cat, 
for  a  broken  heart  and  rifled  affections,  with — a  puppy! 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  383 

It  is  only  certain  high  and  exquisite  souls,  that  exhale 
an  atmosphere  from  themselves,  out  of  which  they 
never  depart,  who  love  but  once  and  forever.  Were 
it  not  so,  the  world,  in  a  couple  of  generations,  would 
be  either  broken-hearted  or  depopulated ! 

Whatever  was  the  motive  that  had  induced  Mrs. 
Valentine  to  engage  Jemima  in  the  task  of  bringing 
Ingraham  and  Sarah  together,  she  was  at  least  an 
adroit  mediator,  and  very  likely  to  succeed  in  her 
work.  The  negotiation  could  not  have  been  in  abler 
hands.  Match-making  was  Jemima's  weakness !  She 
was  born  to  marry  every  body — but  herself! 


384  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


GENOVA — ^^LA  SUPERB  A.' 


There  are  many  people  who  can  never  judge  of  any 
thing  but  by  comparison.  If  they  read  a  speech,  they 
say,  ''it  is  a  capital  speech — almost  as  good  as  Mr. 
So-and-so's."  If  they  listen  to  a  new  prima  donna, 
they  are  willing  to  admit,  perhaps,  that  she  sings  very 
well,  but  is  not  equal  to  Jenny  Lind.  This  is  espe- 
cially the  sort  of  judgment  to  which  such  people  resort 
in  their  appreciation  of  natural  scenery,  or  of  the 
beauties  of  any  other  country  than  their  own.  How 
common  it  is  to  hear  foreigners  say,  "  Oh,  New  York 
Bay  is  certainly  a  very  pretty  piece  of  water — but  then 
it  cannot  be  compared  to  the  Bay  of  Naples!"  or 
listen  to  some  cockney  adventurer,  who  affects  to  look 
with  a  kind  of  patronizing  disdain  upon  the  grim  Pa- 
lisades, or  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  Highlands,  com- 
passionately observing  to  his  friend,  "  How  sublime  is 
the  Rhine  at  Drachenfels !  "  This  stupid  kind  of  half 
appreciation,  on  the  part  of  foreigners,  of  course  in- 
spires the  natives  with  a  sentiment  of  national  amour 
propre,  equally  absurd.  It  would  be  difficult  to  make 
a  New  Yorker  admit — or,  in  fact,  believe — that  there 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  385 

was  any  place  in  the  world  to  compare  with  his  be- 
loved and  certainly  beautiful  bay — and  when  discussing 
the  romantic  beauties  of  the  Hudson,  he  actually  works 
himself  up  to  the  belief  that  every  bold  headland  is 
crowned  with  the  ruins  of  a  feudal  castle,  more  pic- 
turesque and  more  extensive  than  any  of  the  boasted 
adornments  of  the  Rhine.  We  once  came  very  near 
witnessing  a  fight,  on  a  North  River  steamboat,  be- 
tween a  New  Yorker  and  a  European,  because  the 
latter  contended  that  Fonthill  was  not,  in  his  opinion, 
quite  equal  to  the  castle  of  Ehrenbreitstein !  In  fact, 
the  abstract  sense  of  beauty,  in  the  million,  is  a  very 
weak  and  unsatisfactory  endowment — it  is  all  a  matter 
of  party,  faction,  clique,  or  national  feeling. 

But  there  are  on  earth  a  few  spots  of  such  regal  and 
overwhelming  magnificence,  that  ignorance  becomes 
electrified,  and  cavil  itself  dumb,  in  their  presence. 
Of  these,  perhaps  the  two  most  prominent  are,  Niagara 
Falls,  and  the  harbour  and  city  of  Genoa. — Every 
body  knows  all  about  the  former ;  but  of  the  latter  it 
is  difficult  for  mere  pen  and  ink  to  convey  even  a  sug- 
gestion of  its  beauty  and  magnificence. 

Genoa — "Za  Superhay'  as  it  has  been  named  by 
the  common  consent  of  the  Italians  and  the  world — 
rises  in  a  steep  amphitheatre,  abruptly  from  the  broad 
blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean.  It  is  built  upon  a 
series  of  picturesque  and  rocky  blufis,  fashioned  by 
art  into  flowery  terraces,  sweeping  grandly  one  above 
another,  each  bordered  with  a  continuous  line  of  pa- 
laces, with  their  facades  of  white  marble  columns, 
33 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

festooned  -with  vines  and  floT\'ers — tlie  ^vhole  forming 
a  picture  realizing  the  brightest  dreams  of  the  imagi- 
nation, Tvhen  revelling  amid  its  reveries  of  the  beauti- 
ful. The  sparkling  white  of  the  tall  and  graceful 
marble  colonnades,  half  curtained  by  the  tender  green 
of  the  vines  and  flowers  that  creep  from  column  to 
column — the  misty  outlines  of  the  mountains  beyond, 
mingling  indistinguishably  with  the  palpitating  blue 
of  the  clear  sky — the  deep  violet  of  the  sea,  spread 
out  like  the  carpet  of  a  throne  at  its  feet — create  for 
the  dullest  eye,  what  is  so  rare  to  be  seen  in  nature — 
a  perfect  picture.  In  other  scenes,  the  eye  and  skill 
of  the  artist  are  necessary,  to  collect  and  arrange  the 
favourable  materials,  and  reject  such  as  are  repulsive 
or  indifferent  until,  all  nicely  combined,  the  conception 
of  the  artist,  rather  than  the  mere  transcript  of  the 
place,  rises  before  us.  But  it  is  not  so  with  Genoa : 
a  bona  fide  daguerreotype,  presenting  it  exactly  as  it 
is,  would  be  its  fairest  and  most  favourable  delinea- 
tion.— One  would  think  that  the  gods,  banished  from 
the  Acropolis  and  from  the  temples  of  the  Peloponessus, 
and  wandering  along  the  shores  of  their  beloved  sea, 
had  at  length  found  a  spot  worthy  of  their  new  home 
— had  established  there  the  new  city  of  their  temples 
and  their  worship — and  named  it  Genoa. 

Towards  the  close  of  a  bright  and  lovely  day — a  day 
worthy  of  lighting  up  with  its  golden  atmosphere  such 
a  city  as  Genoa,  and  which  seemed  reluctant  to  leave 
it — Arthur  Wilmar  and  his  wife  wandered  on  one  of 
the  flowery  terraces  overlooking  the  sea.     It  had  been 


OUR    FIRST   FAMILIES.  387 

the  dream  of  his  youth,  and  his  artist  life,  to  visit 
Europe — for,  like  all  men  of  genius,  he  felt  sad  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  the  world  without  beholding  all  that 
the  family  of  genius,  whose  child  he  was,  had  left  be- 
hind them.  It  is  the  thought  of  a  loyal  and  devoted 
descendant,  to  view  the  trophies  and  mementoes  of  his 
ancestry — a  thought  that  stirs  ever  in  the  heart  of  the 
true  artist,  and  which  taking  him  from  the  present, 
withdraws  him  to  the  glorious  past,  whilst  ambition 
points  to  him  the  still  more  magnificent  future.  And 
when  at  length  fortune  had  blessed  him  at  once  with 
the  return  of  wealth  and  the  possession  of  Felice,  it 
was  he  who  had  asked  of  her  to  conduct  him  to  the 
shrines  of  the  old  world,  where  he  had  so  often  dreamed 
of  paying  the  worship  of  his  soul.  Feeling  that  it  was 
from  her  that  he  had  received  his  only  correct  ideas  of 
art  and  the  beautiful,  he  begged  that  she  would  assume 
the  entire  direction  of  their  pilgrimage,  while  he  would 
resign  himself  wholly  to  admiration  and  love.  Felice, 
with  the  sweetness  of  his  guardian  angel,  and  the  pride 
of  affection,  had  gladly  undertaken  to  guide  her  artist 
lover  through  the  scenes  and  monuments  of  ancient 
art,  and  finally  to  introduce  him  to  all  that  was  desi- 
rable and  charming  in  European  society.  Fui^nished 
with  letters  private  and  ofiicial,  which  opened  their 
way  to  London,  Paris,  and  the  continent,  Felice  had 
drawn  up  her  plan  with  the  skill  and  forethought  of  a 
general. 

She  decided  not  to  take  him  at  first  to  Paris,  where 
the  life,  the  sparkle,  the  animation,  of  the  capital  of 


388  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

the  world,  might  communicutc  its  irresistible  conta- 
gion to  his  ardent  nature,  and  make  his  sensibilities 
less  keen  for  the  silent  beauties  of  Italy,  that  world 
without  a  present,  and  which  lies  dreaming  and  bask- 
ing in  the  mysterious  light  of  the  past.  She  also 
avoided  London,  with  its  oppressive  vastness  and  be- 
wildering greatness,  which  paralyzes  the  mind,  and 
withdraws  it,  with  its  gigantic  practicality,  insensibly 
from  the  contemplation  and  the  enjoyment  of  the 
ideal.  They  had,  therefore,  landed  at  Liverpool  and 
passed  immediately  to  Marseilles,  and  thence  to  Genoa, 
where  they  had  established  themselves  in  a  palace, 
worthy  of  the  Doria,  from  whose  lofty  colonnades  they 
looked  down  upon  the  sea,  and  felt  their  hearts  over- 
flowing with  lo-v^,  expand  beneath  the  delicious  in- 
fluences of  the  sky  and  the  scene,  until  they  formed 
a  part  of  the  glorious  whole.  The  rapturous,  child- 
like delight  with  which  Arthur  drank  in  the  air,  and 
inhaled  into  his  very  soul  the  beauties  by  which  they 
were  surrounded,  communicated  a  new  delight  to  Felice, 
and  with  an  exquisite  pleasure  she  watched  him,  as 
his  eyes  sparkled  and  his  cheeks  glowed  with  all  the 
joy  he  felt. 

"Well,  dearest,"  said  she,  as  they  paused  in  their 
walk,  and  leaned  over  the  marble  balustrade,  gazing 
Gut  over  the  city  below  them,  and  the  sea,  with  its 
noiseless  and  magic  panorama  of  sails  and  streamers 
fluttering  and  gliding  over  its  surface ;  "  are  you  con- 
tented ?  This  is  the  gate  of  Italy — we  have  entered 
within  the  enchanted  land.     Are  you  satisfied  ? " 


OUR    FIRST   FAMILIES.  389 

"  Oh  my  Felice  !"  exclaimed  the  young  artist,  pas- 
sionately; "  how  beautiful  has  all  this  world  become! 
My  heart  is  too  full  of  happiness !  I  have  but  just 
awakened  to  life — all  that  has  gone  before  is  but  as 
the  memory  of  a  dream.  Yes,  yes — I  am  satisfied  ! 
God,  I  thank  thee,"  he  continued,  taking  his  wife's 
hand  and  pressing  it  with  both  his  own  to  his  breast, 
while  his  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  blue  sky;  "  I 
thank  thee  for  giving  me  this  angel  of  love  and  beauty, 
and  for  endowing  me  with  the  capacity  to  enjoy  so 
much!" 

"  Ah,  flatterer !  you  cannot  spoil  me !  Yet  it  is  very 
sweet  to  be  loved  so  much !  " 

"See!"  said  Arthur,  slowly  withdrawing  his  gaze 
from  the  face  of  his  wife,  and  looking  out  over  the 
bay;  "there  is  a  ship  coming  in  under  the  stars 
and  stripes.  What  a  noble  vessel  she  is !  and  how 
gallantly  she  moves,  queen-like,  amid  the  bowing 
courtier  waves !  I  declare  I  never  came  so  near  feel- 
ing patriotic  in  my  life  !  I  have  an  insane  desire  to 
hurl  my  cap  over  the  balcony,  and  shout  'hurra  for 
Uncle  Sam!'" 

"Baby!"  said  Felice,  smiling  at  his  enthusiasm; 
"  do  if  you  like !  The  Genoese  are  almost  as  fond  of 
liberty  as  your  Americans  themselves — and  they  adore 
your  countrymen.  Indeed,  I  have  to  keep  close  watch 
over  my  boy,  for  fear  they  should  steal  him  away  from 
me,  and  make  him  a  President,  or  some  such  horrid 
thing,  by  main  force !  " 

"  No — I  am  no  republican  any  more — I  am  in  favour 
33* 


390  OUR   FIRST   FAMILIES. 

of  an  absolute  monarch — with  only  one  subject  "  said 
Arthur,  playfully,  drawing  Felice  towards  him. 

"  And  which  are  you,  the  tyrant  or  the  subject? 
Ah,  see!"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  clapping  her 
hands ;  "  there  is  a  little  wreath  of  smoke — and  listen 

here  comes  the  booming  of  the  cannon.  It  is  a 
war  vessel,  and  she  is  firing  a  salute.  There  goes  the 
reply !" 

"  Oh,  that  is  capital! "  exclaimed  Arthur;  "we  shall 
have  some  gay  times  here.  I  will  ride  down  and  wel- 
come my  countrymen,  and  invite  the  officers  to  come 
and  see  us.  We  must  have  a  fete — I  am  dying  to  witness 
an  Italian  festa :  and  what  would  be  so  grand  as  having 
it  al  fresco,  on  the  deck  of  one  of  Yankee  Doodle's 
rebels  ?  Run,  Felice,  and  hunt  up  all  your  cards  and 
letters  of  introduction,  while  I  ride  down  to  the  har- 
bour, and  make  my  observations.  I  will  be  back  im- 
mediately. This  is  indeed  a  most  agreeable  event ! 
We  will  have  rare  times!  Kiss  me,  helV  alma!''  and 
away  ran  the  happy  Arthur,  while  Felice  stood  gazing 
after  him  with  an  expression  of  intense  and  ineffable 
affection. — "  Felice,  Felice ! "  she  murmured  to  herself; 
"of  what  a  precious  heart  have  you  become  possessed! 
How  blessed  it  is  to  be  able  to  confer  so  much  happi- 
ness!" 

When,  as  the  evening  was  just  setting  in,  Arthur 
returned  home,  he  entered  his  wife's  sitting-room  with 
a  slow  step,  and  with  an  expression  of  countenance 
altogether  unusual  to  him.  Felice,  hearing  his  step, 
looked  up,  and  ran  to  meet  him. 


OUR    FIRST   FAMILIES.  391 

"  Arthur !''  she  exclaimed,  catching  his  hand  and 
looking  into  his  face  anxiously  ;  "  what  is  the  matter  ? 
What  has  happened?     Are  you  ill?" 

''  Felice  !"  said  her  husband,  taking  her  hand  and 
speaking  in  a  low  whisper;  "  pity  me  !  I  am  about 
to  ask  you  a  question  that  may  make  you  despise  me  ? 
And  jet  I  must  ask  it,  or  I  shall  die !  Promise  to 
forgive  me !" 

"  Pity  you  !  forgive  you  !  My  husband — my  be- 
loved— what  is  it  ?     Speak !" 

"  Felice,  did  you  know  when  we  left  home,  that 
the  Sea-Hawk  had  sailed  for  Genoa?" 

"  The  Sea-Hawk !  What  is  that  ?  I  never  heard 
the  name  before.  Is  it  the  ship  that  came  in  to- 
day?" 

"Yes — it  is  Captain  Wallingford's  ship — I  have  in- 
vited him  and  his  wife  to  visit  us.  They  will  be  here 
this  evening,"  said  Wilmar,  with  forced  calmness,  as 
if  he  were  pressing  the  life-blood  about  to  burst  forth, 
back  into  his  heart. 

Felice  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  She  gazed  at 
her  husband  with  a  strange  expression,  and  then  burst 
into  hysterical  laughter,  while  she  ran  to  one  of  the 
windows  opening  upon  thie  balcony,  as  if  she  would 
throw  herself  out.  Arthur  followed,  dismayed  and 
trembling. 

"Felice!"  cried  he,  catching  her  in  his  arms; 
"  what  have  I  done  ?  Speak  to  me !  forgive  me !  "  and 
he  knelt  before  her,  holding  her  cold  hands  in  his, 
and  looking  up  into  her  face.     Her  eyes  were  fixed. 


392  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

her  brow  was  rigid,  but  her  lips  trembled  convulsively. 
Thus  they  remained  for  several  minutes — an  age  of 
torture  to  Wilmar,  through  whose  breast  rushed  a  tor- 
rent of  conflicting  emotions — love,  remorse,  terror, 
despair. 

"She  loved  him,  then!"  at  length  he  whispered, 
sinking  at  her  feet  with  a  groan.     "  She  loved  him, 

and  sacrificed  herself  for  me !     Oh  G ! — how  can 

I  bear  this  terrible  revelation !     Pity !     Pity !  " 

Felice,  when  her  husband  let  go  her  hands,  raised 
them  to  her  forehead,  and  pressing  them  tightly 
against  her  temples,  seemed  to  be  struggling  to  regain 
possession  of  herself.  Slowly,  the  light  returned  to 
her  eyes,  and  her  features  relaxed  from  their  fearful 
tension.  Without  looking  down  she  put  out  one  of 
her  hands,  feeling  with  her  fingers  for  Arthur's  head, 
which  was  still  bowed  to  her  feet,  while  he  was 
sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  At  last,  an 
expression  of  divine  serenity  passed  over  her  face. 

"Arthur,"  she  said,  stooping  down  and  raising 
him  to  her  heart ;  "my  beloved — what  ails  thee !  Dost 
thou  think  Felice  is  false  in  her  heart  to  her  husband  ? 
Be  thyself!  I  have  never  loved  man  as  I  loved  thee, 
oh  my  beloved — my  husband ! — Never !  never  ?  " 

Tenderly,  as  one  leads  a  wayward  child,  she  led 
him  into  her  chamber ;  and  opening  a  little  ebony  ca- 
binet, she  took  out  a  letter  and  gave  it  to  him. 
"Ptcad,"  said  she,  "read,  my  Arthur,  and  know 
wholly  and  entirely  the  heart  of  thy  Felice ! " 

It  was  a  copy  of  her  letter  to  Wallingford. 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  393 

But  Arthur  had  now  regained  command  of  him- 
self. 

"Oh,  Felice,"  he  murmured;  "do  not  hate  me!  do 
not  despise  me !  I  love  you  so  much — and  I  am  so 
unworthy! " 

"Eead,"  said  she,  smiling  gravely,  and  pointing  to 
the  letter. 

"  Do  not  compel  me  to  disgrace  myself  in  my  own 
esteem  forever — oh,  do  not  punish  me  so  severely ! 
I  did  not  suspect — I  knew  not — oh,  I  was  mad ! — 
Pity!  pity!" 

"Nay,  dear  Arthur,  I  wish  to  unveil  all  my  heart 
to  you.  Keep  the  letter,  and  read  it  at  another  time 
for  my  sake.  And  now  lay  your  head,  you  naughty 
boy,  on  my  heart,  and  hear  if  there  is  a  throb  there 
that  is  not  your  own. — Arthur!  "  she  continued  pas- 
sionately, suddenly  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  pressing  him  to  her  bosom;  "I  love  you  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul !  Oh,  never  doubt  me  again — it 
would  kill  me !  There,  and  there !  Thus  I  kiss  away 
the  first  cloud  from  my  husband's  brow.  Henceforth, 
let  all  be  peace!" 

"Felice!  Felice!  I  am  unworthy  of  you!"  re- 
peated her  husband,  as  he  convulsively  returned  her 
embrace — "but  I  cannot  live  without  you!" 

"You  shall  not  try,  dearest!"  she  replied,  in  her 
old  tone  of  affectionate  playfulness;  "I  will  not  let 
you  try !  And  now,  let  our  friends  come — shall  it  not 
be  so  ?  There  is  not  a  single  flutter  of  doubt  in  your 
heart,  dearest  Arthur  ?    I  have  shown  you  mine,  to  its 


394  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

very  depths  of  love  and  tenderness.  Be  you  also 
frank  with  me.  If  it  "will  give  you  the  slightest  sha- 
dow of  disquiet  for  me  to  see  Captain  Wallingford, 
revoke  your  invitation. — There  is  yet  time." 

"Dearest  Felice,  let  him  come.  You  now  know 
all  my  weakness,  and  have  forgiven  me.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

"  I  know  nothing  but  my  Arthur's  love.  Hence- 
forth we  are,  more  than  ever,  the  whole  world  to  each 
other.     Come,  dearest,  let  us  go  in! " 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  395 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 


HUSBANDS   ANB   HAPPINESS. 

With  a  characteristic  delicacy,  Captain  Walling- 
ford  did  not  accompany  his  wife  in  the  evening  to  the 
Wilmars,  but  sent  her  in  charge  of  his  lieutenant,  Mr. 
Hallam,  afl  extremely  amiable  gentleman,  who  be- 
longed to  one  of  the  "first  families  "  of  Virginia,  and 
although  not  yet  thirty,  had  attained,  through  that 
species  of  political  influence  which  is  as  well  under- 
stood in  Washington  as  at  London,  to  a  first  lieutenant- 
ship,  whilst  many  older  and  better  men  were  still 
plodding  on  as  middies.  He  was  very  good  looking, 
his  "toggery"  of  the  finest  and  most  exquisite  ma- 
terial and  fashion,  and  he  was  altogether  considerable 
of  a  dandy.  He  was  a  great  favourite  with  Mrs. 
Wallingford,  who  alternately  teased  and  encouraged 
the  simple  youth,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  her 
husband — who,  incapable  of  jealousy  or  any  other 
gloomy  and  uncomfortable  sentiment,  highly  enjoyed 
his  wife's  perpetual  flow  of  spirits,  and  had  actually, 
during  the  voyage,  fallen  in  love  with  her  all  over 
again,  and  given  himself  to  all  the  fascinations  of  a 


396  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

new  honey-moon.  He  had  been  as  frank  as  Felice — 
had  candidly  told  his  wife  how  much  he  had  admired 
and  still  did  admire  her  brilliant  friend,  and  ended  by 
putting  into  her  hands  Felice's  letter,  which  had  been 
the  immediate  cause  of  their  reconciliation.  His  wife, 
penetrated  by  this  noble  evidence  of  confidence  and 
affection,  had  clasped  him  enthusiastically  to  her  heart, 
and  murmured  anew  those  vows  of  love  and  devotion 
which  it  is  so  delicious  to  hear,  and  so  dangerous  to 
listen  to  from  any  other  lips  than  those  of  one's  own 
wife.  Henceforth,  all  misunderstandings  between 
Wallingford  and  his  wife  were  out  of  the  question — 
they  had  tested  and  measured  each  other's  nature,  and 
now  reposed,  for  life  and  death,  serenely  in  mutual 
confidence  and  love.  In  short  they  had  never  been 
so  completely  happy.  They  often  talked  unreservedly 
of  Wilmar  and  Madame  de  Saintlieu ;  and  Wallingford 
related,  with  a  smile,  but  with  an  expression  of  regret, 
the  uneasiness  he  saw  he  had  occasioned  Arthur,  when 
they  had  met  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Attarby. 

"Now  you  are  quite  sure,  my  dear  monster,"  mur- 
mured Ella,  with  a  pretty  pout,  as  they  leaned  over 
the  taffrail,  and  watched  the  foamy  ripple  of  the  waves ; 
"you  are  quite  sure  that  you  don't  love  that  danger- 
ous creature  any  more — not  the  least  little  bit?  " 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  her  husband,  with  a 
smile,  drawing  his  wife  tenderly  to  him,  and  putting 
his  arm  round  her  slender  waist;  "on  the  contrary,  I 
do  love  her  very  much !  Nay,  don't  start,  and  struggle 
to  get  away  I     I  have  you  fast  once  more,  and  mean 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  397 

to  keep  you  safe  enougli !  But  she  is,  you  must  admit, 
a  noble  creature,  and  you  surely  have  the  same  cause 
for  loving  her  as  myself — for  has  she  not,  my  sweet 
wife,  re-united  us  forever?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  you  are  quite  right!"  whispered  Ella, 
clinging  closer  to  her  husband's  side ;  "  and  I  am  a 
foolish  and  wayward  child !  But  I  will  be  so  no  more ! 
There  I  You  shall  see !  I  am  certain  that  AYilmar 
and  his  bride  will  come  to  Italy  as  soon  as  they  are 
married ;  and  I  do  hope  that  we  shall  meet  them.  You 
shall  see,"  she  continued,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  en- 
thusiasm, "  how  completely  I  am  cured  of  my  jealousy 
and  coquetry,  and  how  worthy  I  will  be  of  your  noble 
love." 

"What!  and  won't  you  positively  flirt  any  more — 
not  even  with  Mr.  Hallam?  He'll  certainly  jump 
overboard,  some  fine  night,  if  you  doom  him  entirely 
to  despair! " 

"Oh!  "  said  Ella,  laughing,  "you  really  must  leave 
me  my  handsome  lieutenant — I  could  not  think  of 
spoiling  his  exquisite  uniform,  and  dissolving  that 
comme  il  faut  shirt-bosom,  by  driving  hira  to  despair 
and  a  bath  in  the  salt  sea  wave ! " 

"  Well,  well !  I  shall  keep  a  sharp  watch — and  if 
he  misbehaves  himself,  I  can  always,  as  his  superior 
officer,  ornament  his  delicate  wrists  with  a  pair  of  iron 
ruffles,  or  send  him  to  the  main-top"!  But  come, 
dearest,"  said  he,  changing  his  light  and  gay  tone  to 
one  of  tender  solicitude,  "  let  us  go  in.  The  evening 
breeze  begins  to  gather  across  the  distant  sea." 
34 


898  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

"When  shall  we  be  at  Genoa?"  she  inquired,  as  he 
led  her  away  to  the  cabin. 

"To-morrow,  if  this  breeze  does  not  fail  us.  So 
jump ! — don't  be  afraid! — I'll  catch  you  !  " 

Ella  balanced  herself  for  a  moment,  like  a  bird,  on 
the  threshold  of  the  gang-way,  down  which  her  hus- 
band had  already  descended,  and  then,  with  a  little 
cry,  threw  herself  into  his  outstretched  arms. 

The  next  day  the  Sea-Hawk  made  the  harbour  of 
Genoa,  and  came  to  anchor  in  deep  water,  close  under 
the  town — having  exchanged  the  customary  signals, 
and  received  the  usual  official  visits  of  ceremony. 

Scarcely  was  the  noble  vessel  comfortably  moored, 
before  a  boat  from  shore  came  alongside,  and  Captain 
Wallingford  received  the  card  of  Mr.  Wilmar,  which 
was  sent  up  over  the  side.  Hastening  to  his  wife's 
state-room,  he  opened  the  door,  and  with  a  glow  of 
pleasure  on  his  face,  held  out  the  card,  exclaiming, 

"Now,  dearest  Ella,  we  really  are  in  luck  !  Here 
are  Wilmar  and  his  wife  at  Genoa,  and  the  noble 
fellow  has  already  come  to  visit  us.  By  Jove,  I  begin 
to  love  him,  too  !  Now  every  thing  is  as  it  should  be, 
and  the  last  trace  of  cloud  is  dissipated  from  all  our 
hearts.     Is  it  not  so?" 

*  Yes,  yes ! — how  delightful ! ' 

"  Now  I  will  just  go  over  the  side,  and  thank  Wil- 
mar for  his  prompt  kindness — I'U  be  back  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

The  meeting  between  Wallingford  and  Wilmar,  in 
the  boat,  was  of  course  apparently  cordial  and  unem- 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  899 

barrassed.  Wilmar  invited  the  Captain  to  consider 
their  house  as  his  own  during  his  stay  in  port,  and 
said  that,  had  they  been  aware  of  the  name  of  the 
vessel  and  its  commander,  Mrs.  Wilmar  would  undoubt- 
edly have  charged  him  with  a  special  message  to  his 
wife.  As  it  was,  he  begged  that  all  ceremony  might 
be  dispensed  with,  and  that  they  should  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  them  that  very  evening. 

"Most  sincerely  do  I  thank  you  for  your  prompt 
civility  to  a  countryman,"  replied  Wallingford;  "and 
although  you  meet  acquaintances  where  you  only 
expected  strajigers,  I  cheerfully  accept  your  invita- 
tion." 

"  I  would  make  it  so  much  the  more  cordial  on  that 
account,"  said  Wilmar.  "Pray  make  my  excuses  to 
Mrs.  Wallingford,  for  not  paying  my  respects  to  her 
in  person.  I  am  a  terrible  landsman,  and  was  just 
wondering  in  a  sort  of  despair,  how  I  should  ever  sur- 
mount the  walls  of  your  floating  fort." 

The  tw^o  gentleman  separated,  and  Arthur  returned 
with  a  smile  on  his  face,  but  a  pang  at  his  heart,  and 
went  slowly  homew^ards.  It  was  true  that  Felice  had 
told  him  every  thing  relating  to  her  acquaintance  witli 
Wallingford,  and  had  related  the  particulars  of  his 
having  been  reconciled  to  his  wife,  and  her  sailing 
with  him  for  a  foreign  port.  But  she  had  not  men- 
tioned the  name  of  his  ship,  (for  she  really  did  not 
know  it ;)  and  when,  on  inquiry,  he  ascertained  that 
it  was  the  Sea-Hawk,  Captain  Wallingford,  he  was 
about  to  visit,  he  had  a  hard  struggle  to  preserve  his 


400  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

serenity  and  perform  witli  dignity  his  self-imposed  of- 
fices of  hospitality. 

But  his  subsequent  interview  with  Felice,  whose 
divine  sincerity  and  truth  had  completely  reassured 
him,  and  made  him  ashamed  of  his  momentary  return 
of  an  unworthy  jealousy,  had  given  an  entirely  new 
direction  to  his  feelings ;  and  he  awaited  with  impa- 
tience the  arrival  of  his  guests,  that  he  might  con- 
vince his  wife  how  completely  the  fiend  was  exorcised 
from  his  bosom. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  real  disappointment  that 
after  welcoming  Mrs.  Wallingford,  he  listened  to  the 
excuses  which  her  husband  had  sent,  on  the  ground 
of  his  duties  on  ship-board,  which  would  detain  him 
from  paying  his  respects  until  the  following  day. 
Whispering  to  Felice,  he  bowed  to  Mrs.  Wallingford 
and  the  flourishing  Mr.  Hallam,  and  going  out,  at 
once  returned  to  the  Sea-Hawk,  where  he  surprised 
Captain  Wallingford,  seated  alone  in  his  cabin. 

"  My  dear  captain,"  said  he,  in  a  frank  joyous  tone, 
advancing  and  holding  out  his  hand;  "you  see  it  is 
of  no  use  to  try  and  escape  our  hospitality.  I  have 
actually  scaled  the  fortress,  and  taken  the  commander 
prisoner.  There  is  no  use  to  resist — you  must  yield 
yourself,  rescue  or  no  rescue.  Felice  and  Mrs.  Wal- 
lingford are  impatiently  expecting  you,  and  your  apart- 
ments in  the  Terrace  Doria  are  ready  for  you.  The 
Sea-Hawk  will  be  quite  safe  under  the  gallant  Mr. 
Hallam,  and  my  vetturino  shall  bring  him  down  after 
supper.    So,  come  along,  and  let  us  at  once  commence 


OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES.  401 

an  intimacy  which,  if  jou  find  me  worthy  of  it,  I  mean 
shall  ripen  into  a  friendship  that  can  never  change." 

An  appeal  like  this  to  such  a  nature  as  Walling- 
ford's  was  irresistible.  He  rose  and  gave  his  hand 
frankly  to  Wilmar. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Wilmar,"  said  he,  "I  am  yours, 
con  tutto  il  core ,  as  our  Italian  friends  so  charmingly 
express  it.  Lead  on — I  follow — do  with  me  whatever 
you  like.  From  this  moment,  let  us  be  friends  and 
brothers,  for  life  and  death.     Do  you  accept?  " 

"  Yes,  yes — that  is  just  what  I  mean — con  tutto  il 
core!''  exclaimed  the  young  man,  grasping  firmly  the 
hand  held  out  to  him. 

In  a  few  minutes,  the  vetturino  of  Wilmar  was 
rattling  noisily  up  the  strada  Nuova;  and  to  the  evi- 
dent chagrin  of  the  just-now  complacent  Mr.  Hallam, 
Wilmar  and  his  friend  burst  joyously  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Victoria!"  exclaimed  Arthur,  in  a  tone  of  excite- 
ment; "Felice — Mrs.  Wallingford— behold  my  pri- 
soner! Be  it  your  care  to  wreath  his  chains  with 
flowers!" 

"Yes,  but  he  must  be  closely  watched,  Mr.  Wil- 
mar ! "  said  Ella,  mischievously  glancing  at  Felice. 

"Oh,  I  am  on  parole!"  exclaimed  Wallingford, 
laughing;  "and  besides,  he  would  be  an  ungrateful 
prisoner,  indeed,  who  could  entertain  a  wish  to  escape 
from  such  sweet  captivity!"  and  seating  himself  on  a 
sofa,  he  drew  his  wife  towards  him,  and  gallantly 
kissed  her  forehead. 

34* 


402  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

The  only  dissatisfied  face  in  the  room  was  that  of 
Lieutenant  Hallam. 

"  Courage,  mon  brave !  "  said  his  commander,  touch- 
ing him  on  the  shoulder;  "we  will  have  a  grand j^^g 
on  board  the  Sea-Hawk,  and  you  shall  make  up  a 
bouquet  of  beautiesfrom  the  fairest  flowers  of  Italy." 


OUR   FIRST   FAMILIES.  403 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


FRUITION. 


A  FEW  days  after  the  arrival  of  the  Sea-Hawk, 
Mrs.  Wilmar  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Attarby, 
which  had  followed  her  from  Liverpool.  It  was  full 
of  expressions  of  interest,  and  of  good  wishes  for 
herself  and  her  husband.  Among  other  items  of  news, 
the  writer  stated  that  the  marriage  of  Mr.  Edward  In- 
graham  and  Sarah  Henderson  was  now  an  understood 
thing.  Mrs.  Henderson  had  at  first  violently  opposed 
this  match ;  but  she  seemed  to  be  very  much  broken 
in  spirit,  by  all  that  she  had  recently  suffered,  and 
had  finally  given  her  consent.  The  Henderson  man- 
sion was  closed,  and  Mrs.  Henderson  and  her  daugh- 
ter had  removed  to  a  modest  house  in  a  distant  quarter 
of  the  city,  where  they  passed  the  days  of  their  mourn- 
ing in  complete  seclusion. 

Mrs.  Valentine  had  resumed  her  receptions  and 
conversaziones^  and  appeared  more  boisterously  gay 
and  reckless  than  ever.  Mr.  Ingraham  had  openly 
quarrelled  with  his  aunt,  and  had  gone  to  live  at  a 
hotel.  He  seemed  to  be  greatly  changed,  and  was 
scarcely  ever  seen  abroad. 


404  OUR  FIRST  FAMILIES. 

Miss  Jemima  Jenkins,  disconsolate  and  forlorn,  had 
at  length  fairly  billetted  herself  upon  Mrs.  Attarby, 
and  was  now  her  constant  companion.  She  found  her 
not  at  all  a  disagreeable  person,  and  at  times  very 
useful.  As  to  herself,  she  had  no  idea  that  her  di- 
vorce case  would  be  brought  on  under  a  year  or  two, 
at  soonest ;  and  she  suggested  that  she  might,  mean- 
time, be  expected  in  Italy,  and  begged  that  her  friend 
would  keep  her  informed  of  their  movements,  in  order 
that  she  might  join  them,  and,  as  she  expressed  it, 
"  once  more  have  a  little  rational  society,  and  escape 
from  the  memory  of  all  the  snobbish  annoyances  by 
which  she  was  surrounded." 

Meanwhile,  the  days  and  hours  flew  rapidly  by 
with  the  friends  at  Genoa,  whose  happiness  was  as  un- 
clouded as  the  brilliant  sky  above  them,  and  whose 
sweetest  affections  expanded  and  bloomed  in  vigorous 
growth,  like  the  rare  flowers  that  every  where  blushed 
and  shed  their  fragrance  around  their  footsteps.  Love, 
tried  in  the  furnace  of  adversity,  disappointment,  and 
self-denial,  now  planted  deep  in  the  kindly  soil  of 
noble  hearts,  sprung  up  in  a  bounteous  harvest  of  con- 
fidence, mutual  devotion,  and  a  happiness  as  serene  as 
the  golden  air  that  lay  upon  the  palaces  and  gardens 
of  "Genova,  la  Superba,"  and  as  unfathomable  as  the 
blue  sea  that  murmured  its  mysterious  music  at  their 
feet. 

THE  END. 


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Read  the  comments  of  the  Press, 

"Julia  Tremaine — We  have  received  from  the  publishers, 
Messrs.  Whilt  &  Yost,  309  Market  street,  a  few  proof  sheets  of 
"Julia  Tremaine"  a  novel  of  English  society,  which  they  will  issue 
in  a  few  days — From  a  hasty  glance  at  the  pages,  we  incline  to  the 
belief,  it  will  create  a  sensation  in  literary  circles  j  it  is  written 
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sorbingly interesting — The  ladies  will  be  particularly  delighted 
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JULIA   TREMAINE— OR,   the    Father's  Wish   and  Husband's 
Duty — Philadelphia:  Whilt  &  Yost. 

"Our  Republican  aristocrats,  who  rejoice  in  titles,  are  advised 
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fashionable  English  society — ^there  being  not  a  man  below  a  ba- 
ronet, nor  a  woman  below  an  "Honourable." 

"Such  a  brilliant  procession  of  lords  and  ladies,  have  np^er  be- 
fore been  introduced  to  American  society." — Cummings'  Evening 
Bulletin. 

405 


40G 

JULIA  TREMAINE— OK,  the   Father's    Wish   and    Husband's 
Duty — Published  by  Whilt  &  Yost,  309  Market  St. 

This  book  is  a  publication  of  a  new  and  enterprising  firm.  The 
scene  is  laid  in  England.  The  plot  involves  the  hopes,  fears,  and 
sufferings  of  every  day  social  life.  The  career  of  the  heroine, 
Julia,  is  sketched  with  power,  and  the  interest  is  exceedingly  well 
sustained  throughout.  To  the  lovers  of  fiction,  this  prettily  printed 
volume,  will  furnish  an  agreeable  and  interesting  repast.  The  in- 
cidents are  well  sketched,  and  the  narrative  is  easy  and  flowixg." 
Sunday  Despatch. 

The  publisliers  could  append  many  more  favourable 
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Preface  to  Julia  Tremaine. 

The  publishers  in  presenting  the  following  tale  to 
an  American  public,  feel  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing 
it  one  of  the  most  interesting,  refined,  and  beautiful 
stories  yet  offered  for  their  perusal. 

The  style  is  pure  and  simple,  abounding  in  deep  and 
thrilling  interest  from  the  first  to  the  last  page. 


407 

In  every  day  life  we  have  frequently  observed  pa- 
rallel cases  to  those  drawn  in  Julia  Tremaine.  The 
deserted  wife  with  her  helpless  babe,  forsaken  and  for- 
gotten by  her  unworthy  spouse,  with  tears  will  answer 
how  near  her  case  approaches  to  the  sorrowful  Julia. 

The  profligate  and  extravagant,  disregarding  all  the 
better  feelings  of  humanity,  lured  on  by  ambition  to 
the  attainment  of  unhallowed  ends,  will  answer  how 
near  the  picture  drawn  by  Lady  Maria  approaches 
her  case. 

This  is  no  overdrawn  exaggerated  tale  of  human 
life.  That  there  does  exist  in  society,  these  forsaken 
wives,  and  unprincipled  women,  festering  the  good  in- 
tentions of  honest  persons,  is  beyond  all  doubt. 

This  then  will  hold  up  to  them  a  mirror,  in  which 
they  may  see  a  ''counterfeit  presentment"  of  them- 
selves, the  sequel  proving  that  virtue  and  honesty  of 
purpose  must  and  will  triumph  over  all  the  fiendish  in- 
trigues and  plots  that  can  be  concocted  to  achieve 
its  overthrow. 

WHILT  &  YOST. 

Philada.  June  1st,  1855. 


WHILT  &  YOST, 

i 


309  Market  Street, 

ABOVE  EieniH,  NOETH  8IDI!, 

Are  now  ready  to  contract  -with  Publishers  and  Booksellers  gene- 
rally for  the  binding  of 


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IN    ALL    THEIR    ENDLESS   VARIETY. 

Having  added  to  their  establishment  all  the  new  and  improved 
machinery  of  the  day,  and  brought  into  requisition  the  services  of 
the  best  workmen,  they  feel  every  assurance  that  they  will  be  able 
to  give  complete  satisfaction  to  all  who  may  favour  the  house  with 
their  patronage. 

Complete  arrangements  have  been  made  to  supply  the  wants  of 

Boos:iss£sa§  km  "smiitEmt 

Not  having  binderies  of  their  own. 

H^^By  the  aid  of  a  great  deal  of  Machinery,  we  are  enabled  to 
guaranty  to  Publishers 

Fifteen  per  cent,  less  in  tlie  cost  of  tlieir  Binding 
than  formerly  paid* 

N.  B. — In  reply  to  the  many  calls  W.  &  Y.  have  had  for  the  Bind- 
ing of  Magazines,  Periodicals,  and  single  volumes,  they  would  state 
that  they  have  fitted  up  one  part  of  their  Establishment  expressly 
for  work  of  this  description. 


i 


^ 


BOOK-BINDERS. 


408 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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